


To Be Free

by Almighty_Hat



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin: The Animated Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Love Triangles, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almighty_Hat/pseuds/Almighty_Hat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a lovely day in young Princess Jasmine's garden, and then the boy sorcerer fell out of the air.  The next three years would be a little bit different than they otherwise might have been.</p><p>(Three-act canon divergence story where Mozenrath and Jasmine meet at seventeen and thirteen, respectively, and strike up a clandestine friendship because they're both smart, bored, and lonely.  Each chapter is more intense than the previous one, so be sure to check the Author's Notes for warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucky Bird, Inside a Gilded Cage

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** CHARACTER DEATH. Also, discussion of child marriage, age disparities (no worse than canon), implications of consent issues, violence and the aftermath of violence, implications of child abuse growing into instances of abusive parental relationship (when both are adults), a touch of body horror, and I really feel like I need to warn for Jafar, Destane, and CHARACTER DEATH.
> 
> This one has been in my head for a LONG time. The title is taken from a deleted song from the movie ultimately used in the Aladdin Musical Spectacular stage show in California Adventure; chapter titles are snipped from the lyrics. (Full lyrics at the end of the work.) Later chapters contain dialogue taken directly from the film, where plot-relevant.

It was a nice enough day to be out in the gardens; Jasmine had managed to excuse herself from her lessons by saying that Rajah had seemed restless that morning, as though he needed exercise or something to chase.

He’d been meant for the royal menagerie, a diplomatic gift in Jasmine’s name not actually meant to be hers, certainly never meant to be a pet, but at eleven years old she’d absolutely refused to let the tiger cub out of her sight for a moment. “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll move him to the menagerie before he gets big enough to cause problems,” her father had assured the eastern diplomats.

It had been two years. The worst problems Rajah had caused were on the order of shredded curtains and upholstery, and Jasmine had it on good authority that aside from the one time he’d chewed the leg off her divan (and his adult teeth had been coming in, so it was hardly his fault that he needed to chew on things), it was no worse than having a housecat, a parrot, and a toddler around. _And,_ not or.

So. It was a nice day, and Jasmine bint Ahmed, Princess of Agrabah and future Queen Consort, had deftly escaped her tutors to make sure her pet tiger, currently napping on sun-washed paving stones like a grossly oversized housecat, wasn’t _restless._

Effectively, she had the afternoon free, and intended to make the most of it.

Naturally, that was when the air erupted in a rip of blue-black flames, which coalesced into and then disappeared around a man who was _obviously_ a sorcerer.

Jasmine had exactly enough time to be proud of herself for not screaming, to wonder if she should scream, and to wonder if Rajah would actually attack someone if she told him to, when the sorcerer’s eyes rolled back in his head and his knees wobbled out from underneath him and Jasmine’s reflexes finally started working-- she darted forward to catch him before he struck the pavement, but he was already unconscious.

Could magic exhaust someone? Was he hurt, was he dying? Was he _sick?_ “Rajah, come help,” she pleaded, and the tiger at least got to his feet to inspect the strange goings-on. The sorcerer might have been tall, but he wasn’t terribly heavy (even if Jasmine prided herself a little on being athletic and strong), and she got him draped over Rajah’s back almost easily, then convinced Rajah to follow her into a patch of shade.

A patch of _hidden_ shade, because it was possible he was a good sorcerer, or just lost, or needed help, but he was definitely a _male_ sorcerer and he’d burst into the _harem gardens_ and that just wasn’t done. The guards would have his head if he was lucky.

When Jasmine finally got the sorcerer laid out in a way that looked comfortable, she realized he might actually have been a boy, not a man. He was taller than her, and his chest was thin in a way that reminded her of Jafar, and his skin was sickly-pale-- but his cheeks were as smooth as Jasmine’s own, no trace of beard or stubble. Unruly black curls escaped his turban-- which was, like his clothes, dyed dark indigo blue, a color even Jasmine knew was expensive. She didn’t touch the gold embroidery to find out if it was real, but she was tempted.

Maybe he was a sorcerer-prince. Maybe he’d come to ask for her hand and had just misjudged where his spell would take him.

Maybe he’d come to kidnap her.

Maybe he knew of some great and terrible danger and had come to warn them all.

“Mmh…”

Maybe he was _waking._ Jasmine stared for a moment, then hurried to lean against Rajah. When the sorcerer opened his eyes and started to sit up, looking confused, Jasmine was very proud of how confident she sounded. “My name is Jasmine, and this is Rajah. I’ve taken care of him since he was a cub, and I don’t know what he’ll do if I scream.”

“… Understood,” the boy-sorcerer answered, slowly pulling himself upright. “If you’ll tell me where I am, I’ll leave you to your tiger, Jasmine.”

He was really very tall. His clothes were made to make his shoulders look broader-- like Jafar again-- but the height was more intimidating than the manufactured breadth. “I want you to answer two questions first.”

“Ask them,” he said.

Jasmine knew that wasn’t a promise to _answer_ them.

“Who are you?”

“I am Mozenrath,” and he bowed, stiffly-- no, carefully. He wasn’t well yet, Jasmine guessed, “apprentice to the sorcerer Destane.”

She’d guessed he was a sorcerer and didn’t know who Destane was, so Jasmine kept herself from looking impressed with Mozenrath’s introduction. “Thank you. What are you doing here?”

Mozenrath scowled. He had a generous, expressive mouth, and his scowl made him look like he’d taken a long sip of vinegar. “I’m here by mistake,” he very nearly spat. “It seems I haven’t yet mastered teleportation. I _will._ ”

But he hadn’t yet, obviously. Well, fair was fair. “You teleported into the Royal Palace of Agrabah,” Jasmine told him, “but you teleported into the _harem gardens,_ so if you aren’t well enough to teleport back out again, you might want to wait quietly until you are.”

For a moment he looked scared, but then his face turned sly. “Aren’t you a little young for a concubine?”

“I’m thirteen,” Jasmine protested, “and I’m not a concubine.”

“Lady-in-waiting and tiger-keeper?” he asked, and if his smile had a wry edge, it was still a smile. Jasmine couldn’t help smiling back, partly because he hadn’t guessed that she was a _daughter,_ not simply a woman who lived in the harem.

Not every daughter was a princess, but that didn’t matter too much. “Something like that. Is magic hard to learn?” He might’ve been a boy, but he was still older than she was, and Jasmine knew plenty of her own lessons were to keep her busy, whether or not they were actually interesting lessons-- but when they went wrong, she didn’t faint.

Mozenrath tilted his head a little. “Some of it is. Some of it is easy. But I’ve been Destane’s apprentice for a long time.”

She got the feeling he was oversimplifying for her, but that was all right. Sometimes people let things slip when they did that, and just because Jasmine didn’t _like_ being treated as though she were simpleminded didn’t mean she couldn’t use it. “How long?”

“I was four.” There was more than that, something bitter, but Jasmine nodded.

“How old are you now?”

“Sixteen or seventeen. Probably closer to seventeen.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“My natural parents didn’t leave Destane with a lot of information about me,” he said, shrugging, looking distant.

“Did they die?” That surprised him, and brought him back to looking at Jasmine.

“They were either poor or greedy,” Mozenrath said, “because they took my bond-price and left. Did _your_ parents die?”

“My mother died when I was two,” she told him, and it felt good to be able to claim that, in a way-- to tell someone who didn’t know. To have that be part of _her_ history, not just Agrabah’s. 

“… And your father left you in the harem to raise tigers?” There was something unreadable on Mozenrath’s face at that, and Jasmine laughed.

“Rajah is the only tiger here-- a diplomatic gift to the princess. He just happens to love me almost unreasonably.” She rubbed at Rajah’s shoulder, and for his part, Rajah nuzzled at Jasmine’s neck, licking once. His tongue was rougher than a heavy fall onto the sand, but Jasmine didn’t mind getting tiger kisses unless she got so many she started to bleed. “Yes, I love you too, Rajah.”

“Why didn’t you raise the alarm while I was unconscious?” he asked. “I could have been here to do anything.”

“I thought you might have been sick, or hurt,” Jasmine said. “I wanted to know for myself why you were here, first-- and if I scream, the guards will come at a run.”

“And you don’t know what your tiger might do if you scream,” he agreed, nodding. “You yet have me at your mercy.”

“You didn’t disappear after I told you where you were,” Jasmine pointed out.

“I went further than I intended. That or landing in the wrong place… Well, I’m not ready to disappear yet, and I can’t just walk out of here unmolested, can I?”

“… Maybe if you were disguised as a servant-woman and didn’t say anything,” Jasmine allowed, “but not dressed as you are.”

His laugh at that was surprised and not bitter at all-- Jasmine liked it. “I’ll keep that in mind. I think I have strength enough to alter my clothes.”

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” she asked him. “Would that help?”

“It should,” he agreed. “Water would be best, or fruit.”

There was an arrangement of fruit on a footed platter in her room, meant to be more decorative than anything. Jasmine ate out of it all the time, to the disappointment of her etiquette tutors. “I can do that. Rajah, stay here with Mozenrath. … Mozenrath? Please don’t wander off.”

“You have my word.”

So Jasmine stood, and dashed off.

~*~

Mozenrath let himself settle back against a tree trunk, eyes closed but ears focused on the tiger, just in case. Obviously, it couldn’t be a man-eating tiger, or they wouldn’t let some servant girl or servant’s daughter (maybe a courtier’s daughter, she was well-dressed) be its keeper, but he wasn’t sure how far he could push his luck. Mozenrath knew nothing of the body language of cats, and couldn’t guess what the beast would want even with his eyes wide open.

Still, he was _tired,_ as he’d only meant to take himself beyond the citadel’s walls-- not a whole kingdom away, into some mundane sultan’s garden, to be amused and protected by a half-grown girl. It would work out, even if Destane was displeased with him when he got home; he’d claim he hid himself, waited out the worst of his exhaustion, stole a handful of-- whatever Jasmine brought him to eat, and returned home as soon as he was able. It would even be the truth. He’d just leave out the girl and the tiger, and let the girl be kind (if forthright) while he had the opportunity.

She obviously had no idea who Destane was, or she would have been shrieking for the guards as soon as Mozenrath mentioned him. It wouldn’t have been an issue, he could teleport away from a dungeon as easily as a garden-- but it might take longer to recover from the misaimed teleport if he were in chains somewhere. No, odd as it was to be tended by anyone, let alone a living girl, Mozenrath would let Jasmine look after him. Hadn’t he entertained the odd fantasy of helping some mysterious stranger and being rewarded for it when he was thirteen?

… Though the girl probably didn’t harbor hopes of her mysterious stranger being her late mother come to claim her, or an escape from her current life. Or maybe just the escape-- who knew what she thought of living in a harem? Pity he couldn’t provide an escape for her, if she wanted one. He couldn’t take her to the Land of the Black Sands, and simply depositing her outside the palace walls would just put her in danger, not repay her hospitality.

He’d find some other way to repay her for her ignorant kindness, just so it couldn’t be so much as implied that he would leave a debt behind in Agrabah.

There were hurrying footsteps on the pavement, then on the grass-- light footsteps, but he opened his eyes anyway. It was Jasmine, carrying a small pitcher (beautifully made, all blue and green enamel work) in one hand and a bundle wrapped in either a large handkerchief or a small scarf in the other. When she was within arm’s reach, she offered him the pitcher-- which he accepted, gratefully, and drank from without waiting to see if she could produce a cup. Agrabah was warmer than the Land of the Black Sands. The breach in manners didn’t seem to bother the girl all that much; she just spread out her cloth on the grass.

It turned out to have an assortment of fruit; grapes, a small melon, a pear, a peach. “Do you like peaches?” he asked, reaching for the pear.

“I do. Don’t you?”

The pear was perfect; in another few hours it would be overripe. “Not particularly. Why don’t you eat that?”

She nodded, and smiled warmly before biting into the peach. They ate in silence for a little while. “I’m surprised you aren’t afraid of me,” Mozenrath said, eventually. 

“I am, a little,” she admitted, “but the worst thing you’ve done is end up in someone else’s harem by accident. … So far.”

“That’s probably enough trouble for me to get into for one day,” he agreed, amused. “And you’ll get in trouble, too, if anyone finds me here. You didn’t call the guards.”

“I could tell them I thought you were a sorcerer-prince who got lost on your way to the throne room. I did think that, for a little while.”

“… Why?” What?

“Your clothes are expensive. I’ve seen princes before, and you could look like a prince.”

“Or a rich merchant, or a sorcerer who uses magic to make fine clothes out of rags. Why a prince, specifically?” He knew he didn’t look like royalty or nobility-- he was too thin, too pale, he worked too hard.

“Oh. That’s… it made sense to me,” she explained, “because the Sultan doesn’t have any sons, so his oldest daughter-- she’s my age exactly-- has to marry a prince by her sixteenth birthday. There has to be a male heir to be the next sultan.”

“Why can’t the Princess take the throne herself?” It would streamline the process.

“The law says only a widow can be Sultana of Agrabah,” Jasmine said, shrugging.

“Hm.” Strange law. If the Sultan died without his daughter married off, what happened to the throne then? “You know, I might technically be eligible to marry the Princess,” he mused, mostly to see what Jasmine would do.

“… No, you said you didn’t know your parents.”

“But I am Destane’s apprentice and heir,” he countered, “and Destane is Lord of the Land of the Black Sands. Does the prince have to be of royal blood, or just heir to a kingdom?”

“… I don’t know,” Jasmine admitted. “Everyone who’s come has been royalty but _not_ heir to _anything,_ and that’s why they come to Agrabah. They can’t have their own kingdom’s throne because there are older brothers in the way, so they want Agrabah’s throne, instead.”

“You don’t sound like you approve.”

“It doesn’t seem right to want to marry someone you don’t even know just so you can be sultan of a kingdom you’ve never visited before.”

“Plenty of men like power more than anything else,” Mozenrath told her. It would be a good lesson for a young girl to learn.

“Even if they don’t know what they’re getting?” Jasmine asked. “From the Princess _or_ the city. Letters and gifts come from all over, not just the Seven Deserts.”

“Oh? Would the Princess make a bad wife?” Not that Mozenrath had any basis for comparison, but maybe Jasmine did, living in a harem.

“… I don’t think so. Not to a husband who… was friends with her. But I know she wants to be in love.”

Maybe she was more of a lady-in-waiting than a tiger wrangler. “You know the Princess that well?”

“We _are_ the same age,” Jasmine pointed out. “And Rajah is technically her tiger.” So they doubtless saw a lot of one another. Probably spent their childhoods tossed together to play at whatever girls played at.

“So, are you technically Lady Jasmine? I’d guessed you were a courtier’s daughter, not a servant’s…”

“… My father is… pretty highly-placed,” Jasmine agreed, reluctantly, “but it can be just Jasmine, if you want. Unless you want to be Lord Mozenrath, or Prince Mozenrath.” He wondered if it was only girls who were like this, or if Mozenrath at thirteen had known his own will but been uncertain if he were truly allowed to _work_ his will.

“I’ll call you whatever you like if you’ll tell me your real title,” he offered, half teasing.

“… And I’ll tell you my real title,” Jasmine said, sly as a serpent, “if you come back and visit me again.”

He had to laugh, for all he tried to keep it quiet. (His voice had long since changed; it wouldn’t do for anyone to overhear a man laughing in the harem.) In a year or two, once Jasmine finished growing into her figure (and her wide child’s eyes), the Princess would discover her little tiger-maid had turned into an impressive rival. “I’d like that,” he agreed, easily, “but I’ll need something of yours first, so it’s easier to find you _deliberately._ And so I can look before I leap, and not arrive in the middle of a whole gaggle of concubines and ladies’ maids.”

“… Something of mine like what?” She worried at a bracelet on her wrist-- probably gold, possibly a well-polished brass. “Does it have to be valuable?”

“No. It just has to be _yours._ A ring made for your finger alone, a hair ornament only you have ever worn…” She still hesitated. “These aren’t things you could just say you lost, are they?”

“Not without getting lectured on taking better care of my things,” Jasmine agreed.

“What about a few strands of your hair? It would work even better,” particularly if she didn’t know enough about magic to understand just what she was trusting him with, “and no one would ever notice. Just a few loose strands tugged free, like you’d find in your comb.”

“… Could anything bad happen to me if I do?”

She was cannier than Mozenrath gave her credit for, and he already thought she was clever enough to be amusing. “In the hands of an unscrupulous sorcerer, yes. I won’t do anything worse than check in on you from time to time.”

“Can you promise me you won’t let any other sorcerers use the hairs?”

He did have a few ways he could hide something as small as a few strands of hair from Destane. Besides, he didn’t really want to think of what Destane might do with control of a thirteen-year-old girl. “I can, and I so promise, Jasmine. I won’t even let my own master near your hair.” And with that much protection, he could call the debt of hospitality paid, even overpaid.

“Thank you.” Jasmine ran a hand through her loose hair a few times, fingers coming away with a few single strands. Mozenrath helped her unwind them from her fingers, carefully looping them into a coil.

He didn’t think too closely about her motives, or his own. He was apprentice to one of the most powerful and ruthless sorcerers in the Seven Deserts, if not the world. If he wanted to amuse himself with a lonely young girl’s attentions, why shouldn’t he? Particularly if the girl welcomed such associations.

Besides, she was interesting, and that was rare.

~*~

Mozenrath disappeared in the same blue-black flames that had carried him into the gardens, and Jasmine was left with plenty of time to wonder.

She had plenty of time to miss him, too-- he was _interesting,_ and didn’t treat her like a princess (probably because he didn’t know she was one, but she couldn’t really regret that), and it was easy to wake up in the morning and hope he’d come back that day.

Those days turned into weeks, and there was no sign of the apprentice sorcerer, and Jasmine started to get frustrated. She turned her mind to books, but not in the way her tutors might have hoped.

Her map of the Seven Deserts showed the position of the Land of the Black Sand, but only marked its borders. It wasn’t far from Agrabah, but it was terribly isolated; not a single caravan route came anywhere near it. She asked her diplomacy tutor why that was.

“Perhaps the caravans that serve that kingdom don’t serve near enough to Agrabah to be of any notice,” he suggested.

She accepted it, but it sounded too much like an answer designed to stop further questions, particularly since the map showed _all_ the regular caravan routes, not just the ones that visited Agrabah or Agrabah’s allies.

So she asked Jafar.

First he tried to shoo her off by asking if she didn’t have well-paid tutors to help her with her geography. “I do, and I asked, but I don’t think he told me the truth.” Jasmine spread out her map, pointing to the Land of the Black Sands. “I don’t understand why no caravan routes pass anywhere near this kingdom-- and I know the map doesn’t just show Agrabah’s caravan routes, either.” She hadn’t fallen for that the _first_ time.

So Jafar looked, and his expression went from disdainfully indulgent to thoughtful-- and it looked like Iago copied it. The parrot did that sometimes; Jasmine’s father found it adorable and fed the poor bird those horrible crackers when he noticed it.

“Princess, this kingdom-- the Land of the Black Sand-- have you any particular interest in it?” Jafar asked, all oiled silk, heavy on the oil.

“I’d like to know how it gets its supplies, anyway.” A half-truth, because Mozenrath would be eating those supplies.

“Likely by magic,” Jafar said with a shrug. “Barely two generations ago, the Land of the Black Sand was home to a populace as thriving as Agrabah’s own, with a strong tendency to produce necromancers. Sorcerers,” he explained, “who specialize in death, and the undead. It is empty of all living things now but for its ruler, the sorcerer Destane, who seized control in his youth and is far too powerful to be usurped by any non-magical army. Now that his rule over his own kingdom is absolute, Destane is content, and has been for more than twenty years. He does not seek to expand his borders or treat with other kingdoms, and the other kingdoms of the Seven Deserts are more than happy to leave him be, master of an empty house.”

… And this was Mozenrath’s master? But Jafar hadn’t mentioned Destane’s apprentice… “Is he an evil sorcerer?” She must have looked frightened as a lost kitten, because Jafar was smiling again-- he liked to scare her, now and then, when he could get away with it, and Jasmine _had_ asked.

“That would depend, Princess, on what he did to the citizens of his country-- and no one outside the Land of the Black Sand is truly certain of that. If I were you, I would put Destane’s supplies out of my head. Caravan routes are important, but perhaps you have something more pleasant to study?”

“I-- I’ll find something. Thank you, Jafar, for being honest with me.”

He inclined his head, graciously, and Jasmine took her leave.

Mozenrath had _not_ seemed like an evil sorcerer, or an evil sorcerer’s apprentice, to her. Not that she’d ever met an evil sorcerer, but she _had_ met more than a few princes who had set out for her hand a little earlier than her father might have liked. She at least knew how to spot meanness and pettiness, and she hadn’t seen _that_ in Mozenrath, just a tendency to tease a little. He’d also listened to her, talked with her like she was a real person, not a prize he hoped to win, or a child who couldn’t understand what was said around her, or an awkward piece of furniture that had to be worked around. Jasmine had always assumed if she met someone who was truly evil, she’d know it immediately.

Maybe that was why she hadn’t known what to think of Mozenrath at first. He’d been in Destane’s care since he was four, after all, and that was a long time to learn to be evil. Then again, if he had been raised by an evil man in an evil kingdom, would Mozenrath know how to _hide_ being evil? Wouldn’t evil be as natural to him as saying please and thank you was to Jasmine?

There wasn’t anything she could do about it but wonder, and make mental lists of questions to ask him, and meet the occasional suitor, as weeks turned into months.

One night, after her father had sent away a hopeful suitor who was nearer to his age than Jasmine’s, the air in front of her burst into blue and black flame-- and Jasmine squeaked in completely undignified surprise and fell off her divan.

Mozenrath towered over her, glared down at her-- for a moment. Then he spluttered out a laugh he couldn’t hold in anymore and offered Jasmine his hands. “Come on, get up.”

“You scared the daylights out of me!” but she put her hands in his, and let herself be helped to her feet again.

“Oh, I’d say we’re even. I found out a few things about the Sultan of Agrabah’s daughter, _Lady_ Jasmine.”

“I told you I’d tell you if you came back,” she countered, smoothing her clothes. “And… since you came back, I am Princess Jasmine bint Ahmed.” It was an admission. “And you _really_ shouldn’t be in my bedroom, particularly at night.”

“No? Where else are you alone enough to meet in secret with foreign sorcerers?”

He had her there. So Jasmine diverted. “… _I_ found out a few things about the Land of the Black Sand,” Jasmine told him, as boldly as she could. “I have questions.”

Mozenrath’s eyebrows shot up-- and he sat on the end of her divan. Where she _slept._ Really, he was terribly impertinent. (Or, possibly, he expected a princess to have a bed.) “Only questions, Princess?”

“Call me Jasmine,” she said. “Please. Nobody I like calls me Princess.”

“You’d better ask your questions before you give me permission, then,” Mozenrath told her.

So she nodded, and went to collect the stool from her vanity so she could sit facing Mozenrath. “What happened to all the people who used to live in the Land of the Black Sand?”

She’d surprised him, she could tell. Well, you couldn’t just start off with ‘are you really an evil sorcerer?’ after all. “I don’t know,” Mozenrath admitted. “They were gone long before I was old enough to notice their absence. I’ve never asked Destane about them directly-- and I don’t think he’d tell me if I did.”

“Is Lord Destane really a… necromancer?” The word was unfamiliar, and Jasmine stumbled over it a little.

“He is,” Mozenrath said, “and so am I, but I study more kinds of magic than necromancy. It’s all fascinating, to me.”

“Do the two of you kill people?” That was important.

“Sometimes we have to.”

“Why?”

“Why do your city guards execute criminals?” he countered. “People come to the Land of the Black Sand trying to steal from us or destroy us-- and if Destane really killed all his citizens, they might be right to try. But we’re still right to fight for our lives, Jasmine, and we are frequently better prepared than the people who attack us.”

“Does it happen often?”

“No. It’s been years.”

“Good.” Jasmine had more questions, but somehow they’d dried up.

“You’re worried I’m some kind of monster, aren’t you?” Mozenrath asked, leaning forward, arms on his knees.

“A little,” she agreed, “or that Destane might turn you into one. I don’t want you to be any kind of monster.”

“Neither do I,” Mozenrath said, quietly, “but we don’t always get what we want.”

That couldn’t be right. “But you’re a boy. You can choose things.”

“I’m an apprentice,” he corrected. “I have as many choices as my master offers me.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” Jasmine couldn’t help sounding a little afraid. Destane had either killed a kingdom’s worth of people, or _disappeared_ a kingdom’s worth of people, and she wasn’t sure which was more frightening.

“No, of course not,” and it was the kind of hasty reassurance her father used to use when Jasmine suspected there were monsters hiding behind the curtains or unkbuut clinging under her balcony. “He doesn’t know I have any interest in you-- he’d forbid me from coming here, if he knew.”

“… Why _are_ you interested in me? Why did you come back?”

“Mm. A little bit because I wanted to scare you. You might not have lied to me, Princess, but you told some spectacular half-truths.”

Jasmine felt her cheeks flush. “You didn’t tell me about your empty kingdom,” she countered.

“It never came up-- and I told you I was from the Land of the Black Sand. It’s not _my_ fault you didn’t know anything about the place.”

“… You’re right, but I don’t have to like it,” Jasmine admitted-- and Mozenrath laughed, happy and amused, even if he was amused at Jasmine’s sulk.

“You’ll learn,” he promised her. “You’re young. Lie as little as you can, and don’t make up details. It’s much easier to leave things out.”

“Does that work better than just lying?” 

“It does for me,” Mozenrath said with a shrug.

“But you don’t have servants everywhere, and maids, and guards,” Jasmine told him. “There are people all over the palace-- you know that, if you were watching.” He’d already mentioned he knew how seldom she was alone, so he should know most of her life was witnessed by _somebody._

“You do seem surrounded most of the time. How do you handle it? I’d end up turning someone into something unpleasant.”

“… You… get used to it?” she offered, uncertain. “It’s been this way all my life. Parts of it are frustrating-- I hate being told where I’m allowed to go and what I’m allowed to wear there-- and parts of it can be… lonely,” and maybe it was a risk, telling him that much, but he’d _watched,_ “but I honestly don’t know anything else. I’ve never even been outside the palace walls.”

“… Would you like to?” Mozenrath asked. Jasmine must have stared, or looked terrifyingly eager, because he amended, “Not tonight, and maybe not for a while-- I’ve been working at teleportation, but I don’t think I’m good enough to carry myself and someone else, not yet-- but. Would you like to?”

“Yes, absolutely,” because… _yes, absolutely,_ “as long as nobody misses me, so it can’t be for long.”

“Not ready to run away forever, then?” Mozenrath asked, chuckling.

“No,” Jasmine said. “Why, are you?”

That stopped the laughter and made him stare at her. “It isn’t that simple, Princess.”

“Not for either of us,” she agreed. “You have a master and I have a duty. We’re… we’re stuck, aren’t we? Trapped.”

“Mm. Well, maybe someday, when you’re Queen of Agrabah and I’m Lord of the Land of Black Sand, we’ll make a treaty between our kingdoms that will shock everyone,” he suggested-- trying to distract her a little, she thought.

“Only if my husband likes you,” Jasmine told him, smiling a little. “The Queen of Agrabah has a lot of power-- over the household staff, not over peace treaties.”

“I’ll threaten to turn your husband into a Mamluk if he tries to decline,” Mozenrath said, and like that, it had turned into a game.

“Maybe I’d better know what a Mamluk is before I decide if that’s a good idea or a bad idea.”

“A necromantic creation,” he explained, “made from the desiccated body of a man and a _lot_ of magic. They’re strong, they follow simple orders, they can’t disobey or betray their masters, they never tire, and they never need food or water, only rest now and then. They’re useful servants, and we use them for nearly everything.”

“… Is that what happened to all the living people?” It seemed plausible to Jasmine, and was apparently something Mozenrath hadn’t considered before-- he blinked, over wide eyes.

Then he shook his head. “No-- at least, not all of them. All the Mamluks I’ve ever seen have been adult men. … They might be the old standing army,” Mozenrath mused. “Their clothes match.”

“That still leaves questions.” What happened to everyone who wasn’t a soldier?

“I know.” Mozenrath looked down at his hands for a moment. “It’s not something I try to think about, often. Destane has what he wants, he doesn’t want to bend anything else to his will or rule anywhere but the Land of the Black Sand. … I’m not sure _why_ that’s all he wants, but that’s all he wants.”

“What do you want?” Maybe that was a better question than ‘are you evil’ or ‘do you think you’ll become evil?’

“… Power,” Mozenrath admitted, and Jasmine thought that might be a problem. “Power leads to respect, and I do want that-- I’ll need that. I’ll need to be feared-- fear is what keeps attacks on the Land of the Black Sand so seldom, and when Destane dies, it will be me alone in that kingdom.”

“You could let people in,” Jasmine suggested. “Merchants and farmers and things-- brave ones, who aren’t afraid to live there.”

“Or desperate ones, who have nowhere else to turn. It’s worth considering,” he allowed. “… Why, do you think it will make me less evil?”

He was teasing again, but Jasmine shrugged. “It would at least be something to fight for, if you had to fight-- more than empty buildings and undead soldiers. If you have to be fearsome, being fearsome for your people would make you a strong ruler. I don’t know what being fearsome just for yourself makes you.” But she didn’t think it was anything good.

“Are you preparing for the day you become a widow, Princess? Because that sounded like a sultana speaking.” 

It was more teasing (teasing she didn‘t mind, somehow), but Jasmine couldn’t help smiling. “Do you think so?”

Mozenrath laughed again, even if he did stifle it quickly. “You want power as badly as I do, Jasmine.”

“… Well, maybe-- I know I want to be able to do more than decide which servants I want to keep. I don’t want to rule the world or anything, but even if I get to pick the next sultan of Agrabah, I won’t be able to take credit for it if he turns out to be a good sultan.”

“Your father is letting you choose?”

“So far, he says we both have to agree. He sent a suitor away tonight because he’s forty, and Father wouldn’t hear of it.”

“You’d have a better chance of ending up a widowed Sultana with an older husband,” Mozenrath pointed out.

“Don’t be terrible. Besides, if he died without giving me a son, I’d have to do the same thing all over again.”

“… Is having a male heir really that important? Granted, I ask that speaking as a male heir…”

Jasmine shrugged. “It is in Agrabah, anyway, so there’s stability for the people. Father says they don’t like not knowing who their next sultan will be.”

“An argument in favor of a kingdom of Mamluks,” Mozenrath said, teasing again-- or maybe half-teasing. “They don’t grow restless or rebel against their masters.”

“… Do they do the things that commoners do?” Jasmine asked. “Grow food, carry water, make cloth? There isn’t a single caravan route that visits your kingdom.”

“Some of those things, Mamluks can do. For the rest, well, that’s why I need to keep working on teleportation spells. When we need something complicated to produce-- or just something specific, a book, an artifact, an ingredient-- we go get it ourselves. … Besides, you can’t really send a servant into the marketplace for griffin’s toenails, can you?”

Jasmine giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hands. Griffin’s toenails! As though anything that sounded that silly could be a real magical… anything. “No, I don’t think so. Not in Agrabah’s marketplace, anyway.”

“I thought not. So if we have to leave for the exotic, we may as well pick up the mundane while we’re out.” It made sense to Jasmine, put that way. If it was only the two of them-- well, how much could they eat? “I’d like to ask you a few questions-- I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

“That’s fair,” she had to agree. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you let me think you were a lady-in-waiting?” Mozenrath asked. “There are plenty of reasons that might have been clever, and you should remember that trick, but-- why with me?”

“… At first because I didn’t want you to know who you’d found. I didn’t know for sure what you wanted, and I didn’t want to give you a princess to ransom. Then…” All he’d wanted was to leave. “A couple of reasons. I don’t always like how people treat me, once they know I’m a princess.”

“So it’s a trick you’ve played before?”

“Only a few times. It’s getting harder to get away with it. But what I mean is-- when you thought I was Jasmine, the… tiger-minder, or Jasmine the lady-in-waiting, or even Jasmine the courtier’s daughter, it felt… I felt like you were talking to _Jasmine._ And now that you know, you keep calling me Princess. Usually just when you’re teasing,” but she’d noticed. And even if he might be an evil sorcerer someday, she wanted to be _Jasmine_ when he talked to her.

“Is that why you’re lonely? Because the people in the palace don’t talk to Jasmine?”

Jasmine had to wonder what Mozenrath was learning from all this. “Sometimes. I don’t get to really make friends with anyone-- the closest I have to a friend I can talk to is Rajah, and he doesn’t answer back as clearly as I might like.”

“… You want me for a friend, don’t you?” He might’ve been amused, but Mozenrath was also wary.

“Only if you want,” Jasmine assured him.

“Did you want that even when you thought I was an evil monster?” _Now_ he was teasing again. Jasmine rolled her eyes.

“I thought you _might_ be an evil _sorcerer._ Now I think you’re probably just a little wicked.” Wicked could be bad enough, but it wasn’t evil and it always had a reason. “But-- yes. I still hoped you’d come back and talk to me. I wasn’t ever sure you’d want to be friends. … You’re almost a man, for one thing, and I’m just barely marriageable.”

“… You’re thirteen,” Mozenrath said, brows raised. “Your father really intends to marry you off at thirteen?”

“He wants to hold off until I’m at least fourteen-- but it’s only two and a half years until my sixteenth birthday, and I _have_ to be married by then, remember.”

“The only thirteen-year-old I’ve ever known, besides you, was me,” Mozenrath told her. “And it wasn’t that long ago. I remember being… pretty childish, still.”

“Everyone tells me girls are ready to marry a lot younger than boys. A man needs an income and a home to take a wife, and a woman just needs to be able to bear children.” Jasmine had never liked that. It didn’t sound _wrong,_ exactly, but from the woman’s point of view, it sounded _boring._ Jasmine might love having children of her own, but she was going to be a _queen,_ and it seemed like having at least one son and managing the palace’s staff would be all she’d ever really get to aim for. She’d been born too high to get much higher.

“You’re too young and too clever to resign yourself to being somebody’s brood mare, Jasmine. I wish I could…” But he trailed off, shaking his head.

“What?” 

“I wish I could teach you a little magic. Something to help you influence the world. But I can’t visit often enough to do it right, I don’t know if you have the _ability_ to learn, and even if you did… I’m told the older you start learning, the less power you can hope to wield.”

“… So you couldn’t even teach me a _little_ bit?” Because that, at least, sounded interesting.

“I could try, but having to coordinate lessons between when I can sneak away and you’re alone? It could take us years to cover the basics. _If_ you have the ability. It’s rare.”

“How do you know if you have the ability?”

“… In someone untrained, who couldn’t _use_ their magic? It would… probably take some other form,” Mozenrath said, thoughtful. “Musical talent, strength, agility, mastery of languages, even just luck, good or bad-- but whatever it was, it would be extreme, completely beyond what any ordinary talent or skill could produce, and present since childhood. Early childhood.”

Jasmine tried to think of any remarkable qualities she might have. She could sing, but not so well people flocked to hear her; she could read and speak several languages, but she had to work hard to learn them. “I’m very stubborn,” she offered, “but I don’t think I’m magically stubborn. Could you still teach me _about_ magic? I don’t know anything about how it works, and I’m curious.”

“I could be persuaded,” Mozenrath allowed, smiling a little. “Still want me to come back, despite the possibility of evil?”

“You’re not evil _now,_ ” Jasmine informed him. “You might not ever be evil, or only a little bit evil. I don’t think you’d hurt me…”

“I can’t think of any reason I’d need to.” Jasmine chose to believe that, and to put her trust in it

“So yes. If I’m safe with you, then I want you to come back, when you can.” Maybe having a friend who wasn’t evil could help keep Mozenrath from advancing from ‘wicked’ to ‘evil,’ at least any farther than he had to, in order to stay safe around Destane-- who probably was outright evil. Probably.

“… A word of warning,” Mozenrath said. “If Destane catches me, I won’t be able to come back.”

Which would have her worrying if he didn’t come by for months and months again. “I understand,” even if she wished she didn’t. “Could you send word if that happens? So I know… so I know you’re alive, but that you won’t be coming back?”

“Maybe. I can’t promise-- but I might be able to think of something.”

~*~

Mozenrath forced himself to keep scrupulously few illusions about his association with Princess Jasmine. She was, after all, still a child-- just barely by her kingdom’s standards, but to him, still a child-- and as the elder of the two of them, as the more powerful, he’d need to be the one to face the consequences if they were found out.

Yes, he kept visiting Jasmine when possible, and intended to keep visiting. As time moved on, it became more regular-- once a fortnight, if not more frequently.

Yes, he _wanted_ to keep visiting Jasmine. Mozenrath didn’t consider himself unduly selfish, but as Jasmine had very few confidants of her own, her companionship was something that was his and his alone, and it was easy to feel greedy for that, possessive of it.

No, despite eligibility, he didn’t entertain any serious thoughts of proposing to Jasmine. Idle thoughts, certainly, the odd daydream when he checked in on her and found her frustrated by the search, by her father, by the vizier, by the latest suitor-- pretending that he _could_ do it, could put himself between Jasmine and the inevitable consequences of Agrabah’s ridiculous laws, could slip into line for the throne of Agrabah, play the hero and rescue her from becoming the living seal on a treaty between herself and the best politician to sue for her hand-- but Destane would never have allowed it. Mozenrath was his apprentice, and Mozenrath was years, even a decade, away from becoming a master sorcerer. The most he could do to protect her from her future faceless husband was to offer her revenge if that husband mistreated her at _all,_ and continue their friendship. 

Yes, Jasmine had become his friend, and he considered himself to be hers. It was insidious how quickly what might have been a brief or purely manipulative association had turned into a _friendship,_ and Mozenrath had to be _aware_ that it was a friendship to keep it from distracting him. If Destane thought he was lagging behind in his studies, or caught on that his nighttime teleportation practices had a regular destination… 

For all his necessary clarity, that was something Mozenrath didn’t dare think about. He could weather whatever punishment Destane decided to rain down on him, if he were caught, but he wouldn’t allow Jasmine to catch Destane’s attention. She was too young, too untouched, her troubles refreshingly _safe_ in so many ways.

She was _his,_ and Destane couldn’t have her.

She was a weakness for Mozenrath, and as such he had to both protect her and pretend she didn’t exist.

She was _also_ intelligent, sly, and determined. She lacked any spark of magic whatsoever, but she was quick to pick up theory when they discussed it, and eager to learn more even if she couldn’t actually _use_ it. For her part, Jasmine shared as much as she knew of how Agrabah was run-- plenty of it observed from the sidelines of diplomatic visits or her father’s study, because what books she could get hold of were slightly pilfered. For some reason-- possibly the bizarre law restricting Jasmine’s right to the throne-- the royal tutors weren’t inclined to give her much more political information than would let her navigate a dinner party successfully.

Fortunately, a little advice on how to sit quietly and placidly and _listen,_ a skill Mozenrath had honed over thirteen years with Destane, was turning Jasmine into quite an accomplished spy. She couldn’t do it suddenly, of course, because no one would believe Jasmine, the viciously independent princess who treated a tiger like a tabby, had suddenly become demure and quiet overnight. The first time it had really worked, Jasmine had excitedly thrown her arms around him when he appeared in her chambers, announcing, “Guess who got to hear _all_ about Agrabah’s new treaty with Paramoor!”

And then she’d plopped onto the floor, collected a scroll and a stylus, and taught _Mozenrath_ about the treaty and the economic benefits it would bring both kingdoms.

And somehow, it was fascinating.

No, it wasn’t the same thrill as finally mastering a spell, or the triumph of getting past all of an artifact’s safeguards to finally claim it for yourself, but it was _new._ New, and useful, and they spent the next handful of visits discussing economics, caravan routes, official protection for caravans, and the sorts of things Agrabah exported in exchange for other kingdoms’ imported goods.

It was part of how to run a kingdom, something Mozenrath had never thought about, at least not particularly hard. He knew how to defend the Land of the Black Sands from a handful of well-prepared adventurers, but not how to set up an exchange that would keep him fed without depleting the treasury. (The treasury was, of course, significant, but it wasn’t _infinite._ It could keep Mozenrath fed and clothed even if he lived to be a hundred and fifty, but if he tried to repopulate the Land of the Black Sands after Destane died, he might need a way to replenish it. And it would never do for Mozenrath’s own apprentice, or his apprentice’s apprentice, to run out of money.) Likewise, if an army descended, he’d have no idea how to fend them off besides sending waves of Mamluks after them.

When he happened on a mundane tome of military tactics and practical strategic thinking, he adopted it, and he and Jasmine spent a great deal of time going through it, taking notes-- he couldn’t leave the book with her, in case it was missed-- and arraying Jasmine’s Army of Tiny Floral Sculptures against Mozenrath’s Forces of the Jewelry Chest in mock battles across the treacherous terrain of Jasmine’s bedroom floor. A scarf made a river, a blanket a sea, various sizes of pillows for hills and mountains, and they worked at out-thinking each other.

They were fairly evenly matched; Jasmine hated for any of her pieces to be ‘killed’ or captured, her losses due to being overcautious, and Mozenrath often lost a fair portion of his army even when he did win.

He wasn’t, he told himself, trying to play kingmaker. Jasmine couldn’t rule her own kingdom unless her future husband first gave her a son and then conveniently died (he was, occasionally, tempted to offer to arrange that for Jasmine). Mozenrath _was_ aware he was probably turning Jasmine into a force to be reckoned with-- she was naturally determined, but the last thing she’d had to which she could truly apply herself was tiger care.

Truth be told, the tiger seemed to require less maintenance than horses did, and Jasmine’s mind would be wasted if it were restricted to managing a palace and arranging diplomatic dinners.

When he felt ready, he did fulfill his promise to take her outside the palace walls-- to the beach a few miles past the lights of Paramoor, somewhere too secluded for them to be caught and not so far away it taxed his abilities. They spent a happy few hours there under the full moon, Jasmine unafraid of the surf, and eventually both of them reclined on his cloak, comparing their knowledge of the stars.

Five or six months after Jasmine’s fourteenth birthday (where they began a tradition; she saved him a little of the celebratory feast, he brought her a handful of gold coins and magically reshaped them into delicate bangles while she watched), she began to lose the coltish quality of girlhood, her figure finally maturing to match her height. The quality of her suitors began to change as word of her blooming beauty began to spread. Before, the princes had been either too young to marry by Jasmine’s deadline, their parents hoping for an arranged match, or older spare sons, old enough to be Jasmine’s father and fed up with being denied their own countries’ thrones by accident of birth.

A year and a half before the deadline, the princes who came to woo were closer to Mozenrath’s age, nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-four, generally considered handsome, and all hoping to impress the Sultan and his daughter, to be first in line for a throne won by charm or guile rather than conquest or diplomacy.

Jasmine hated them to a man, and Mozenrath was desperately proud of her for that.

“What do I _do?_ ” she begged him one night, when she’d sent some fool away with his tail between his legs. The worst of the louts kept discovering a Princess who had hand-reared a nine-hundred-pound tiger from a cub-- starting when she was _eleven,_ a child by anyone’s standards-- was not a girl to be trifled with. This particular suitor’s visit had ended with a vicious snap of Rajah’s jaws… witnessed by several attendants to both parties who agreed that whether or not the almost-bite had been a threat display or a near miss, it was prompted by his heinous highness’s inability to stop touching Jasmine when she shrugged him off or asked him to keep his distance. “How do I find someone-- who-- ugh!”

She pitched forward onto her divan, face smothered in pillows, frustrated. Rajah nudged her foot, and Mozenrath chuckled and tossed her hair onto the divan from where it trailed on the floor. “Well, what do you want?”

Jasmine sat up enough to keep from muffling her words. “To end this parade of overblown egos wrapped up in overpriced fabric and enough jewels to feed a garrison of soldiers for a year,” she said, and that was obvious bare honesty. “To-- to…”

“Come on. To… find a husband who…?” He’d heard it before-- to find a husband who would be a good sultan for Agrabah and a good husband to Jasmine herself.

“I’m _tired,_ ” she told him instead, “of looking for a good husband. For a good future sultan. I don’t think a prince exists who knows how to be both those things-- or if he does, he stayed at home to become a vizier. I want-- I want that _stupid_ law to disappear,” she declared. “I want to be free to choose who I marry, _if_ I marry, in my own time-- to decide for myself if I want to marry for politics or for love. … I want to be allowed to sit on my father’s throne _myself._ I _know_ I couldn’t do a worse job than some of these… peacocks.”

“… You know, I think on some level I expected that,” Mozenrath told her, smiling. He liked her best when she was on fire with something. “You _should_ be Sultana; you’re the Sultan’s oldest child, and you’d be formidable in your own right. It’s a pity the Sultan of Paramoor doesn’t need a bride-- you could unite your kingdoms and start an empire.”

“Oh, stop teasing. Father would never change the law just because…”

“Because it’s wrong,” he supplied, “and stupid, and needlessly stifling, and an unnecessary complication to the royal line?”

“Sometimes I think you want me on the throne just so you can play at being the power behind it.” But she sat up, leaning against the head of the divan, shooting him a wry look.

“I wouldn’t dare. You don’t need a power behind you. You could pick whichever one of these posturing buffoons you think is prettiest and be the power behind _his_ throne, you know.”

“I know. I’ve tried to want to. … I’d rather run away and… try to learn to herd goats.”

He couldn’t help laughing at the image, and after a moment Jasmine laughed along with him. “All right. So, start convincing your father the law is wrong. He got a wonderful example today, didn’t he?”

“… Rajah wasn’t trying to eat him right then,” Jasmine protested. 

“I know. If he’d meant business, there would have been a lot more screaming.” Rajah butted up against Mozenrath’s thigh, sensing an ally, and Mozenrath rubbed the back of the tiger’s ear. “We’re lucky your pet is so restrained, Princess.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I am. But-- all you have to do is arrange for the worst of the suitors to display the worst of themselves to your father. Now, I don’t know him, except through you; I know he loves you dearly. If he’s _wise_ \--”

“He’s kinder than he is wise,” Jasmine admitted-- which Mozenrath had honestly suspected. Jafar seemed to manage a lot of the more difficult details of running a kingdom.

“Then appeal to his kindness. Show him when you’re hurt, when you’re frustrated. Tell _him_ you want to marry someone who loves you, not someone you can only hope will treat you decently. Even if you can only convince him to push the deadline back until you’re eighteen or twenty, that gives you years to keep working at it.”

For a moment, for a long moment, he was sure she’d agree to it. Her mind was working, and there was fire in her eyes.

Then she sighed and flopped over the divan again. “I could do so much more with my life than this…”

“You deserve to,” he assured her. “The world would be a poorer place without you living up to your full potential.”

“You’re terrible,” she told him, again.

“I am. But you could be _great_ and terrible.”

“Stop it,” Jasmine laughed.

“A sultana to make the history books,” he went on, grinning.

“Mozenrath!”

“An iron lady, a steel-willed beauty, to lead Agrabah into a new Golden Age,” and that was when Jasmine reached out and pulled his turban down over his eyes, laughing all the time. “Going to pull my pigtails next, Princess?”

“Are you wearing pigtails under there?”

“Try it, Jasmine. Try convincing your father this isn’t right. He may not see your potential to advise him, but he loves you-- he’ll listen to you if you’re unhappy, won’t he?”

“… It’ll take time…”

“You have… where are we now, a year and a half?”

“A year and four months.”

“It will be enough time,” he assured her.

“I hope you’re right.”

~*~

There were times it was intensely frustrating, being friends with Mozenrath.

She loved that he urged her to do more, be more, to study everything she could and read voraciously, to tell her father that she’d be a better ruler for Agrabah than any of the princes-- too young, too old, or too stupid-- who had paid suit so far (even if she knew full well she never would), she loved to sit together and learn troop deployment tactics, the economic and diplomatic pitfalls of running a kingdom. She loved that he knew she was intelligent, and saw that intelligence as a useful thing much more than an amusing thing. She knew, for certain, as well as she knew her own name, that they were good for each other, that they made each other better, more well-rounded, more thoughtful.

Jasmine also knew that Mozenrath was in the so-far unique position of being eligible to propose marriage while also being someone Jasmine wouldn’t loathe being married to.

Then there were the nights he came to her moving stiffly, assuring her that he was fine, only over-extended. That it was nothing, that he had fallen, that she didn’t need to concern herself with it. She was careful about touching him, those nights. He’d had to learn how to react to her hugging him now and then, when they were first getting to know each other; he’d stiffen up before awkwardly putting an arm around her shoulders, even the innocent hugs of a lanky thirteen-year-old. By the time Jasmine’s fifteenth birthday started looming, Mozenrath was comfortable enough with friendly, platonic touches that now and then, he’d even offer an arm himself. 

But on the nights when he moved like an old man, Jasmine didn’t touch Mozenrath at all-- because she couldn’t tell where she could touch him and not draw a hiss of pain he’d try to downplay.

Only rarely would he admit something like “Destane wasn’t pleased with me,” or with his mastery of a spell, or with his concentration.

She was trapped by her duty to Agrabah; if she couldn’t find at least a prince who would make a _decent_ husband and a _pliable_ future sultan, it was on her shoulders to find another way to keep the kingdom stable, but Mozenrath was trapped by a contract that had been sealed by nothing but money, probably before he’d even learned to read. No matter how difficult he made it sometimes, Jasmine couldn’t simply punch him in the shoulder and insist he propose to her and solve her problems for her.

And he _did_ make it difficult sometimes. When he went on about what a remarkable ruler she’d be, what an unstoppable force for Agrabah, a Sultana little girls would play at being across the Seven Deserts, it was so very, very hard not to smile up at him and say, “I could do it, with you by my side.”

She could just picture it, and it made for a wonderful, frightening thing-- the two of them free to learn all the rules, and finding as many ways to bend them as they could. They were smart enough, they were bold enough, and they hadn’t yet stumbled across a subject that both of them failed to grasp, or that one of them couldn’t manage to explain it to the other.

There were days she worried she hadn’t yet chosen a suitor because they compared unfavorably to Mozenrath.

Those days, lately, were rare, especially if Jasmine made herself take a step back and see that it wasn’t precisely Mozenrath she was comparing her suitors to, but to reasonable standards of intelligence and politeness. The princes were Mozenrath’s age or a little older, but they preened, they leered, they sometimes _pinched._ They seemed to think it was necessary to shower her in so much flattery their meaning was completely obscured, or speak to her in words small enough it might have been Iago paying court. (The parrot had a more impressive vocabulary than some of the hopeful princes, too.) Occasionally, there would be a prince who seemed to think just riding up to the palace bedecked in all his finery would secure the throne for him, and talked to Jasmine as though she were already his to bed.

Jasmine had no patience for those princes; Rajah had less, tending to growl, snarl, and threat-snap at suitors who had trouble with ‘don’t touch me’ as non-negotiable. It wasn’t long at all before he pounced one of them, growling down at the prince as he lay flat on his back, helpless. Jasmine had been proud of him for quieting with just a sharp word from her.

Her father complained, of course.

“Dearest, you really must control Rajah better. I know you don’t want him moved to the menagerie…” It wasn’t much of a threat anymore; Rajah had gotten used to having free run of the palace. He’d never _stay_ in the menagerie.

“He hasn’t seriously harmed anyone,” Jasmine argued, “he always stops when I tell him to stop, and every time he has…”

“Attacked, Jasmine.” The way he said it, she knew she’d have to think quickly-- Father was so rarely stern.

“Defended. Every time he’s struck out against someone, it’s because they touched me when I made it clear that I didn’t want to be touched.” It was a little bit better, at least as far as keeping up appearances went, than having to strike out against them herself. (None of them ever realized her clothing was a warning, not an offer. Rajah was always mentioned with pride when Jasmine was described to a hopeful suitor, because a girl who could raise a male tiger from a cub into a healthy, obedient nine-hundred-pound housecat would surely make a good mother someday. Jasmine bared her arms, her shoulders, her torso to the navel not because she was proud of her body, not to entice men, but to show that she _had no scars._ Four years with a _tiger_ as her constant companion, and she still had all her limbs, both her eyes, all her fingers and toes, and not a single injury that had left a lasting mark on her skin.)

“Jasmine, there will be moments in any courtship where you can expect to be touched,” her father pointed out.

“… Shouldn’t those moments come _after_ I say I’d like to get to know someone better? After I invite touch? Father,” she pleaded, “I don’t want to marry _anyone_ who puts his hands on me after I tell him to take his hands away. I couldn’t trust him. Those suitors don’t leave because Rajah scares them away-- Rajah defends me because those suitors are… unsuitable.”

“I understand, dearest, I do-- but first, you must _tell_ me these things, not simply trust that I know Rajah’s mind as well as you do. All right?”

“All right.” Easy enough.

“And, Jasmine? I worry if this keeps up, we’ll run out of princes.”

And what would happen then? No one had been straightforward with her. “I worry about that, too. I know what the law says-- but I also know… what kind of man… Father,” and she could see him softening, a little, with her worried and letting it show, “I’m not asking for some paragon, for trumpets to blare and a dashing, devastatingly handsome young prince to appear and sweep me off my feet. All I want,” it wasn’t, now, but it was all she’d wanted for a long time, “is someone who will be a good sultan for Agrabah, and a kind husband to me. … I wish…” It was worth a try…

“Dearest?”

“I wish I had the luxury of falling in love,” she said, “ _before_ I marry. I know the law doesn’t really leave enough time for that…”

“Jasmine.” Her father smiled at her, warmly, and took her hands in his. “Love comes, in time. Less time than you’d expect, I think. I don’t want you to marry anyone you don’t like, or feel uncomfortable around. We’ll just have to widen the search a bit, won’t we?”

“If you think that’s best,” she offered, cautiously.

It was a process, really. She wasn’t sure it was working-- her father tended to think of Agrabah’s oldest laws as a tradition he had no business changing, given how long they’d served well-- but there was still time, and at least he knew Jasmine was unhappy. … And that the quality and _restraint_ of Jasmine’s suitors had gone downhill.

Jasmine’s fifteenth birthday passed with a celebration full of thinly-veiled worry-- she was down to her last year-- and was commemorated over second helpings of honeyed sweets and table wine with Mozenrath reshaping a gold coin that floated between his hands. Not simple, smooth bangles this time, but a ring, engraved around the band with a twining jasmine vine (if one could call it engraving if it was worked with magic rather than tools and fire), and a star jasmine blossom in full bloom, flanked by perfect leaves, on the escutcheon-- a signet ring she wore proudly, and immediately pressed into service for writing thank-you letters for her _other_ gifts.

When Jafar remarked on it in front of her father, Jasmine called it a birthday present to herself. Technically, it was-- it just wasn’t _from_ herself. (Her father told Jafar there was nothing remarkable about Jasmine wanting her own signet; she was fifteen now and more than capable of handling her own correspondence.)

_After_ Jasmine’s fifteenth birthday, she didn’t see Mozenrath for a month and a half, and had started to worry. What if even table wine had been too strong for him and he’d teleported himself somewhere hostile or unstable instead of home? He’d explained the redundancies worked into the spell to keep him from appearing in the middle of something like a wall or a stone, but what if those didn’t work properly if the spell-caster was tipsy?

He finally appeared, with two surprises-- a vibrant bruise blooming across his face, thickening his lower lip and shadowing his eye, and a flying… thing. 

It moved through the air like a fish, swimming without water, the body a cross between an eel and a goldfish, but all in dull gray. It had vicious teeth, mismatched eyes, and a disconcerting parody of a full-lipped human mouth.

It followed Mozenrath like a puppy, and Rajah watched it with what was probably an unhealthy interest.

“This is Xerxes,” Mozenrath informed her, proudly, his smile lopsided because of the bruise.

“He’s charming,” Jasmine offered, but was already moving to soak a handkerchief in water, ordering Mozenrath, “Chill this. It’s going on your face, it will help the bruising-- and the swelling. What happened?” He was so pale that every little mark showed. Nothing she could do would stop that bruise from being a livid mess that would last a week at least, but maybe she could keep it from being _too_ terrible.

Mozenrath magically cooled the handkerchief to the point where it nearly frosted over. “I overstepped my bounds. I don’t care, though-- look at him. No matter what Destane says, he’s a masterwork.”

“… Are you really,” but it wasn’t really _asked_ of Xerxes, more the way she’d say ‘aren’t you?’ to Rajah. He couldn’t answer and mostly understood the attention.

But the thing had a surprise for her.

“Xerxes masterwork,” he agreed, air-slithering around Mozenrath’s shoulders. “Mozenrath master.”

“Only _your_ master,” Mozenrath told Xerxes. 

“… Come sit,” Jasmine said, drawing Mozenrath over to the divan. “Here.” She folded the handkerchief over a little, then pressed it carefully against Mozenrath’s cheek and lip. His eye would look terrible, but the swelling on his lip would hurt worse if it wasn’t tended.

… And Mozenrath, seeking the cold relief, pushed his cheek against her hand. He made things so difficult, sometimes.

“Hold that there, especially against your lip, and keep it cold. It will help the swelling, and that will be the worst part tomorrow morning. Now,” she said, sitting beside him, “why do you have a black eye, a fat lip, and a flying…”

“Eel. I started with an eel.”

“Go on,” Jasmine prompted, keeping an eye on Mozenrath and Xerxes both, as the sorcerer absently stroked his thing-that-started-with-an-eel.

“I’ve told you that sorcerers sometimes create… not familiars, that’s witches, and can be dangerous, but a sort of… animal minion…”

She knew this, and cut him off, nodding. “An uplifted, intelligent… animal… companion…”

Oh.

“Hi,” Xerxes offered, gravelly but shy-- almost as though hoping for her approval.

“… Hi,” Jasmine returned, much more gobsmacked than uncertain.

“I wanted one,” Mozenrath said. “I wanted to prove I was powerful enough. And I wanted to take it beyond the impossible,” and oh, damn his pride, what had he done? “Usually, a sorcerer starts with an animal that’s already intelligent. A raven, a parrot, a simian of some kind. It’s easier, for one thing-- they don’t have as far to go. A sorcerer who starts with a raven could end up with a minion smarter than he is, if he’s any good with magic at all.”

“But that’s not what you wanted to do.”

“I poured so much magic into Xerxes,” he agreed, eyes bright. “First I had to alter the body, so he could breathe air instead of water, then add enough sustainable magic for him to _swim_ through the air as he would through water, then the head, the face had to be reshaped, so he had the parts to speak at all. That’s why certain birds are so popular,” Mozenrath told her. “Lyrebirds, parrots, mynah birds, ravens-- they’re all excellent mimics, and don’t need much work to be granted human speech. Then I had to give him a mind-- a mind worth _calling_ a mind, eels aren’t particularly bright, by human standards.”

“… You do seem to have a mind of your own,” Jasmine offered Xerxes, where he lurked nestled up against Mozenrath’s collarbone.

“I think,” he agreed, favoring her with a broken-glass smile.

“ _Ergo sum,_ ” Jasmine agreed.

“… I haven’t had time to teach him Latin yet,” Mozenrath admonished. “I haven’t had time to teach him much at all-- this is his first day.”

“Welcome to the world,” she told Xerxes, then looked up to Mozenrath. “Did he see what happened to your face?”

“… Yes.”

“That might be why he’s a little shy right now. Keep going. Let’s get from where you finished Xerxes to you being black and blue all over.”

“Destane was… less than pleased,” he started-- and Jasmine couldn’t help the frown. “He said I’d been too ambitious-- that a minion like Xerxes is…” He hesitated a moment too long-- his free hand going to stroke Xerxes’s back.

“I can’t help if I don’t know,” Jasmine said, gently.

“Apparently, the choice of an… already-intelligent air-breathing animal isn’t just… to allow the spells to work more efficiently,” Mozenrath said. “It’s a way to hide how much power the sorcerer actually has. According to Destane, Xerxes is… both an embarrassment by not being quite bright enough for correct grammar, and he… marks me as having more power than sense.”

“… What a horrible thing to say.” Especially since Xerxes had been there to hear it.

“And then he threw a book at me when I tried to defend my actions.”

“… This is from a book?” No wonder it covered so much of his face.

Mozenrath just shrugged. “The cover hit me.”

“Well.” Damage control. “Xerxes, I’m very sorry that you had to witness all that on your first day… uplifted.”

“Xerxes saw.”

“Mm. Then at least you’ve learned an important lesson today-- when someone resorts to violence to win an argument, they may win the _fight_ \-- but they’ve lost the debate.” Jasmine stifled a yelp as Xerxes shot from Mozenrath’s shoulders to wrap around her shoulders, instead.

And eel scales felt _odd_ against bare skin.

“Nice lady,” Xerxes concluded.

“Thank you.” Jasmine hoped it wouldn’t take long to convince Rajah that Xerxes was a friend, and not food. “I’m Princess Jasmine, of Agrabah.”

“And you and I have to keep Jasmine a secret from Destane, no matter what we do,” Mozenrath told Xerxes. It was the first time any man had stared at her chest with the intent to make eye contact. “Jasmine is…” His gaze briefly flicked up to hers. “Very nice. Destane is intelligent, and powerful, and still in charge of my education, but he… is not nice at all. If Destane ever learns anything about these visits…”

“Destane mad?” Xerxes guessed.

“You have a talent for understatement,” Mozenrath agreed. “Very, very mad. Dangerously mad. But it’s better to do the things we want to do when it’s safe and keep very quiet about them than to never do anything but what we’re told because we’re afraid of getting Destane mad.”

If not for Destane, if not for his power and his wrath, Jasmine would beg Mozenrath to propose, to meet her father-- to take the easy way out and save her from the law. But marrying Jasmine wouldn’t put Mozenrath out of Destane’s reach. Marrying Jasmine would only give Destane more targets, more ways to hurt Mozenrath without ever laying a hand on him. No matter what they could accomplish if they were free to openly associate-- even just to ally, not marry-- they were bound and caged by duty and circumstance. The world outside their gilded cages was vast, dizzyingly beautiful, and would, if they were caught setting foot out of line, destroy them.

“You’re only in trouble,” Jasmine told Xerxes, gently, “if you get caught.”

~*~

Xerxes, Mozenrath knew, was not and would never be the most intelligent companion. (He didn’t need to be and hadn’t ever been meant to be intelligent. If Mozenrath wanted intelligent company, he’d visit Jasmine.) He was _learning,_ and that was a fascinating thing to participate in. Xerxes liked to repeat short phrases in a loop if he found them fun to say, and would cheerfully inform Jasmine or Mozenrath himself that ‘Mozenrath clever!’ or ‘Mozenrath smart!’

He was less vocal around Destane, because when Destane noticed Xerxes, he tended to scowl. With enough of his good humor worn away (somehow Xerxes just _eroded_ it), Destane would order Mozenrath to “Take that thing and get out of my sight.”

And although that tended to tie up some of Mozenrath’s time in soothing Xerxes, it gave the two of them hours at a stretch where Destane didn’t want to see either of them. That meant more time to pursue avenues of study that interested Mozenrath whether or not Destane found them particularly worthwhile, more time to work on his own projects, and more opportunities to visit Jasmine.

It took Jasmine a while to get used to Xerxes-- which Mozenrath supposed was fair, he thought eels looked interesting, but he had no idea what sort of animals Jasmine might find charming, beyond tigers-- but the Princess never shied away from him if he slithered up to her looking for attention. She spoke plainly and fondly to him, worked with Rajah to keep him from treating Xerxes as a challenging snack, and advised Xerxes that if Rajah ever forgot he wasn’t food, to fly straight up as fast as he could.

Xerxes _adored_ her.

So Mozenrath taught Xerxes the overland route to Agrabah. If anything fatal ever happened to him, Xerxes was to seek out Jasmine immediately. He didn’t know how she’d explain suddenly adopting a flying eel, but there was no safer place for Xerxes, if Mozenrath wasn’t around to protect him.

But Destane managed to ignore Xerxes well enough while examining his latest magical artifact. Mozenrath found it fascinating-- a simple leather gauntlet, made for the right hand, edged in black, but it absolutely radiated power. According to Destane, the gauntlet would provide any mage who wore it with vast amounts of power, and an increase in control to match.

However, Destane had no interest in _wearing_ it. He had only obtained it to prevent anyone who might become a rival from making use of it, but as far as increasing his own power went? “No, Mozenrath. The gauntlet extracts a heavy price from its wearers; very few live more than a handful of years after first claiming the gauntlet.”

“Even those wise enough to take it off between uses?”

“It… dislikes that. The gauntlet is a determined artifact, and may be a _parasitic_ artifact. Once used, its wearers rarely remove it-- until they die, and a new wearer claims it. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if the gauntlet extends some manner of call or influence on an occasional wearer, drawing them back to it. Obviously, more study is needed.”

But between careful spell casting and observation, Destane kept the gauntlet locked in an iron chest lined with silk and rock salt, very basic protections against magic that likely didn’t have any effect on an artifact so powerful, but Destane didn’t want to risk things like enchanted locks, or hiring imps to secure the gauntlet.

Mozenrath thought the gauntlet’s most intriguing quality was its anonymity. It wasn’t the gauntlet Of anyone or anything, attached to no well-known wizard or elemental, not even a pagan god. It had no title, no known history carried with it from one owner to the next. It was simply the gauntlet, an unassuming glove that granted power and ensured an early death, somehow.

Mozenrath longed to know how it caused those early deaths, and if the effects could be subverted. 

The idea of the thing was tempting-- power great enough to usurp Destane, to free himself, to protect Jasmine and Xerxes and to _literally_ do anything he wanted. Becoming the most powerful sorcerer in the Seven Deserts at the age of probably-twenty was a lure of its own, he had to admit, but power was so meaningless if you weren’t using it for anything. Destane collected artifacts of power, magical trinkets that he simply stockpiled and _sat on,_ never turning them into assets or looking for situations where they might be useful. It was like hoarding coins because they gleamed or gems because of their sparkle. There was a point where a stockpile went from being a useful resource to a hoard, added to for its own sake, to further increase the hoard.

But there was no urgency. Jasmine still had a few months to either convince her father to push back her deadline or find a tolerable suitor.

~*~

Jafar bowed, respectfully if not deeply, on stepping into the Sultan’s study. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

“Ah, Jafar. I did, yes. I’ve been seriously considering something, and I want your thoughts on the matter.”

“I shall serve as best I can,” and it was an easy thing to say. Sultan Ahmed was readily distracted; it had taken only the lightest of steering to keep him focused on his little mechanical toys and the search for a suitable husband for the Princess. Jafar ran Agrabah in all but ceremony, the Sultan trusting his reports implicitly.

Whatever the Sultan had to say couldn’t possibly upset Jafar’s plans.

“I believe it might be necessary to alter the marriage law.”

… Well, there was that.

“Alter it to what degree, Majesty, and to what end? Precisely.” Details were important.

“We both know Jasmine hasn’t been remotely satisfied with the suitors who come to call lately,” he began. “But she’s only just become a woman; the boys aren’t truly seeing her, I don’t think-- they come to woo a young beauty whose dowry includes a throne. Now, of course, Jasmine _must_ marry. I’m afraid if I simply repealed the law entirely, she’d never choose a husband and we’d find ourselves without a sultan when I can no longer rule.”

As soon as Jafar found that lamp, Agrabah would truly have the sultan it deserved-- not to mention the sultan who had actually been _doing_ the ruling for the last few years. “So the bones of the law would remain. The Princess must marry-- a prince?”

“That’s where the change needs to begin, I think. If the law expands to allow nobility to pay court, there may be less of those avaricious young men who only see the throne-- and if the deadline is extended, perhaps to eighteen, in… oh, a year or so, when Jasmine’s beauty has become accepted fact instead of enticing rumor, we should see less of the sort of prince… let’s say, the sort of prince most likely to be eaten by Rajah.”

Well, the old fool hadn’t held onto his throne by starting off as a young fool, after all. “I see.” Jafar let himself look thoughtful, toying with the head of his staff, appearing to be considering the Sultan’s words from every angle. It was an easy enough illusion to maintain-- it was true. But the legal implications mattered far, far less than the personal ones, for Jafar-- he had his plans, and he had to consider whether extending Princess Jasmine’s deadline would upset his _own_ timetable.

He had half the scarab, and the approximate location of the Cave of Wonders. Gazeem, he was certain, would find the other half soon, and be an excellent test subject to see if the rumors of the Cave only allowing certain questers were true. 

When the lamp was in Jafar’s hands, his first wish would be to become Sultan of Agrabah, and after that, Jasmine and Ahmed could go hang, or become beggars, or merchants, or whatever they could manage to do to feed themselves. Perhaps the girl could exhibit her tiger for money; certainly Jafar had no interest in keeping that beast around.

“Hm…”

But the search for a suitable prince kept the Sultan occupied, as did trying to convince Jasmine to give at least one of the current crop of inbred idiots a second chance. _Everything_ could be covered in the last hectic weeks of the search, the Sultan’s attention on the Princess and the Princess’s attention on escaping her marriage. Jafar might need that diversion. Hypnotic magic could only go so far-- the Sultan best obeyed orders he truly wanted to follow, sounding dull and hollow if Jafar pressed him to do something contrary to his nature.

“Your Majesty,” and if the Sultan looked up into the staff’s ruby eyes before meeting Jafar’s, well, that was a mere matter of height. 

The staff just happened to lock his gaze where it rested.

“Better not change the law,” Jafar advised, tone gentle and urgent.

“Better not…” The control wobbled. “Jasmine’s hated all her suitors…”

“But you want to see her taken care of,” Jafar urged. “Married and safe. Protected.”

“… protected…” Yes. That was the right tactic.

“The law is for Jasmine’s own good.”

“… Jasmine’s good,” and Jafar felt a touch of relief at the more decisive tone. These thoughts would sound like the Sultan’s own to him.

“You must find her a husband who will take care of her as well as you do.”

“… he’ll take care of her…”

“You won’t live forever. Jasmine must have a husband.”

The Sultan’s expression set, and Jafar slipped the staff out of his line of sight. “That settles it, then-- the law remains,” the fat fool decided. “Jasmine _must_ have a husband who’ll look after her when I’m gone. I won’t be around forever, after all.”

“We are all of us only human, sire,” Jafar agreed, bowing again.

_Excellent_.


	2. All You Hold is Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the four days before Princess Jasmine's marriage deadline, Aladdin finds Genie's lamp, Mozenrath defies his master, Jasmine keeps trying to come up with different options, Genie gets a master who promises to set him free, Jafar goes through at least three fool-proof plans, and nobody really gets what they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we move from the establishment of a bittersweet adolescent friendship into the meat of the story. Just because Jasmine and Mozenrath met almost three years before the events of the movie doesn't mean that Jafar's plans to get ahold of a certain lamp ever got put on hold. Also, quick headcanon note: I consider Genie's name to be Genie but his species to be djinni. Don't know why my brain insists on that, but there you go.

_Most_ of Agrabah had impressed Achmed as he rode through the city; the marketplace bustled and thrived, the shops and homes along the main thoroughfare were in good repair, and the surprising majority of the peasants looked plump and well-fed.

The less said about that pair of urchins who had startled his horse and the street rat who had defended them, the better.

But the palace’s gates had closed on that insolent boy, leaving Achmed with more pressing-- and pleasant-- things to think about.

The vizier Jafar was an imposing man, for all he also looked lean and brittle enough to break over one knee. He had that pinched scholar’s look to him, one who hefted scrolls instead of a sword, consumed words instead of bread. If Achmed’s courtship of the Princess were obstructed in any way, it would come from this man, and his calculating nature.

It certainly wouldn’t come from the Sultan Ahmed, a soft old man so kindly and welcoming that it was obvious why he _needed_ such a prickly vizier.

He was treated to a feast at which the Princess did not appear, but her praises were sung. Her beauty, her singing voice, her intelligence, her way with wild animals. The vizier kept murmuring close to the Sultan’s ear, only to be shushed and brushed off-- which he took with a shrug every time, occasionally offering the brilliantly-colored parrot perched on his shoulder a slice of fruit.

How did the man keep his robes so clean if his pet even accompanied him to meals?

But there was more to wonder, of course-- why they seemed reluctant to introduce him to the Princess, for one thing. Rumor had it that Jasmine of Agrabah was beautiful but notoriously difficult to please, that scores of princess had tried to win her hand and failed, not because the Sultan had objected, but because the _Princess_ had declined. Ridiculous rumors, certainly, but it was beyond odd how no one asked Achmed why he had arrived in Agrabah with no retinue, no retainers, no honor guard. Oh, certainly, Jafar asked him a few personal questions, almost more protective of the girl than her father was.

Achmed was beginning to suspect that Jasmine of Agrabah, whose marriage would net the lucky husband the throne of one plump peach of a kingdom, was not quite as beautiful as advertised-- a harelip, perhaps, or a girl who had been born beautiful but had become disfigured somehow.

It hardly mattered. In a year or three, when he had fulfilled his obligation to produce a male heir of Agrabah’s royal line with the girl, he could start looking for a second wife, and leave Jasmine to whatever harem amusements she liked best.

After the feast, he was ushered off to a richly-appointed guest room that he inspected and admired for some time before settling in to sleep. The upholstery was plush, the fabrics fine-- the sheer curtains silk, not linen. Agrabah was fat and prosperous, and the position of Crown Prince waited eagerly to be filled. He had been promised a private meeting with the Princess the next morning, after breakfast.

Achmed settled to sleep weighing questions in his mind. Why hadn’t Agrabah fallen into anyone else’s hands? What, exactly, was _wrong_ with Princess Jasmine?

After breakfast-- dozens of options on offer, brought to his room for him to choose among them-- Achmed was escorted to one of the palace gardens and discovered that Jasmine certainly suffered from no lack of beauty. Her hair was black, lustrous, and thick, her skin smooth and unmarked (and a good deal of it exposed by the delicately-dyed silk she wore), her figure a sweet and feminine balance, neither fat nor too thin. She was adorned modestly, even though she wasn’t dressed modestly, ears and throat weighted with smooth gold, a jewel pinned to the band in her hair, and a gold signet ring on her index finger. Her face was exquisite, though there was a certain glitter in her eyes that was unladylike. Still, he could appreciate why she wasn’t draped in embroidery and glittering jewels; they would have distracted. Jasmine, like the sapphire above her brow, was a jewel that shone brightest in a simple setting. She moved with grace, more elegant than the sculpted lines of the fountain behind her, and her voice was as warm as honeyed wine when she greeted him.

A prize, a plum, a peach as ripe as the city, and Achmed was in the perfect position to reach out and _pluck._

He didn’t even notice the tiger until Jasmine said, “And this is Rajah.”

The beast was enormous, but lounging like a housecat in the sun-- though he looked up at the sound of his name, watching Achmed with the suspicious nature of all felines. “Ah, an Indian prince,” he said, deciding to let the Princess know that her future husband was not un-worldly. “Namaste,” he told the tiger, with a little mock-bow.

It earned him a hopeful-looking smile from the Princess. “Tell me about your kingdom, Prince Achmed?” she asked, settling on the rim of the fountain.

And so they spoke, for a while, about kingdoms, about how Agrabah compared to his own country, about his brothers a little-- though he made sure to mention his own finest exploits most often-- and when Achmed grew thirsty, Jasmine signaled a servant girl to bring them water. The girl brought a tray bearing two full goblets and a pitcher, but as she bowed to them, one of the goblets wobbled and fell.

The girl stammered out, “A thousand apologies,” as though that were good enough, and Jasmine-- _Jasmine,_ the _princess!_ \-- reached to relieve the girl of her tray, as she obviously couldn’t be counted on to carry anything whatsoever. 

Well, he would just have to show Jasmine he knew how to deal with servants who failed to serve well enough. “Clumsy wretch,” and it really wasn’t much of a slap, but the brass tray clattered to the ground, water splashing to waste all over the polished paving stones.

“How _dare_ you,” Jasmine spat, standing between him and the girl.

“She clearly has no idea how to balance even a simple load, and shouldn’t be permitted in the company of royalty, much less allowed to serve them.”

“She was doing her _job,_ and had an accident-- how dare you touch her?”

“She is a _servant,_ ” Achmed said, as patiently as he could. Really, a soft heart was fine, in an appropriate context…

“She is not _your_ servant,” Jasmine said, still standing between Achmed and the cowering water-girl, fire in her eyes that might have been enticing in the bedroom, but obviously she needed a strong husband to show her when it was and wasn’t appropriate to unleash that fire.

“She will be,” Achmed reminded.

“No,” the Princess said, as darkly as the vizier had muttered anything at last night’s feast, “she won’t,” and behind Jasmine, the water-girl’s eyes grew wide-- she snatched up the last goblet even if she had to reach awkwardly to get it, shoved everything onto the tray, and ran as though demons chased after her.

“Your father wants me for his heir,” Achmed was sure of that. “That will be enough to see us wed, and after that? I will see you gentled, Princess.”

Jasmine met his gaze, her eyes dark and hard as flint-- and then she smiled, almost lazily. She took a graceful step away from Achmed, and called out in a sing-song that had a certain… off-kilter edge to it. “Rajah?”

The tiger stopped sniffing at the spilled water, looking up expectantly at the sound of his name.

The Princess pointed to Achmed, silently.

Achmed’s world narrowed very quickly to the sound of a massive tiger’s growl.

~*~

When the sun rose in an hour or two, it would be two days until Jasmine’s sixteenth birthday, and Jasmine wasn’t going to wait any longer.

Her father wasn’t looking for a sultan, now-- he was looking for a security blanket, someone who could ‘take care’ of Jasmine-- provide for her, even though Jasmine knew full well there was enough gold in the treasury to provide for her for a hundred years without any of it being _missed._ He wouldn’t extend the deadline, he wouldn’t repeal the law-- Jasmine was trapped. Jasmine had accepted she’d never be allowed to rule Agrabah almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, but she _had_ to be able to rule herself.

She left no note, no hint of where she was going. She didn’t dare take much with her-- the long caftan and headscarf were brown and plain, and underneath she hid what jewelry she carried with her. Little earrings she hadn’t worn since she was a child and a few bangles seemed like the sort of thing that could easily be sold, but she also took the delicate little bangles Mozenrath had made for her fourteenth birthday-- those would remain hers-- and on a chain around her neck, hidden where no one could see, she kept the signet ring he’d given her last year.

He’d be able to find her no matter where she was on her birthday, Jasmine was sure. Three years ago, she hadn’t been ready to run away forever, but now? Now, she could accept that if she wanted any part of her life for herself, she’d have to fight for it, and leave the gilded cage behind.

Leaving Rajah was the hardest part. She couldn’t take him with her-- she had no way to hide a tiger, or to feed one. Her heart broke for him as she made her way through the city, still dim in the pre-dawn light, but growing ever brighter, blue to gray to gold.

The sun was up and bright by the time Jasmine reached the marketplace-- and though she didn’t forget her troubles, they were easy to momentarily put aside in the face of a thousand new sights, sounds, and smells. Vendors called out to tempt her to buy pots, sweets, necklaces, whatever they had. The fish vendor startled her with enough force and volume to collide with a fire-eater, knocking her headscarf askew but luckily, not burning anyone, and a little child who couldn’t quite reach a display of apples caught her eye. “You must be hungry.” Jasmine could easily remember the frustration of being a little too little to reach what you wanted to have, and handed the boy an apple easily. “Here you go.”

Then she turned away, assuming the boy could manage to buy his own breakfast, even if he couldn’t reach it.

Apparently, she’d assumed wrong.

“You’d better be able to pay for that,” said a dark voice behind her.

“… Pay?” Jasmine turned to look at the apple-seller-- a mountain of a man, with a sword entirely too large to defend an _apple cart_ tucked into his belt.

The boy was gone, vanished into thin air.

“ _No one_ steals from _my_ cart,” the man growled.

And Jasmine didn’t have any coin-- she’d never had _money_ of her own, and seriously doubted she could offer to barter a gold earring for a single apple without question. “I’m sorry-- there’s been a misunderstanding--”

“ _Thief!_ ” He grabbed Jasmine’s arm with a hand the size of Rajah’s paws-- and drew his sword.

And the crowd’s attention.

“Please-- if you--” well, how much choice did she have-- “If you let me go to the palace, the Sultan can--”

But the man was having none of it, slamming her right arm down on his cart-- which was, Jasmine noted with unwanted clarity, _much-scarred._ “Do you know what the penalty is for stealing?” How did the sword make a sound like that without a scabbard? 

“No! Please!” Two hours, two hours of freedom, and it was going to end with a lost hand, and all Jasmine could see was the sword--

“Thank you, kind sir!” someone interjected, too loudly, and Jasmine blinked. “I’m so glad you found her.” It was… a boy. A peasant boy, obviously, about Mozenrath’s age, between her and the merchant, carefully twisting the sword from his grasp (which he somehow managed to hand to Jasmine), shaking his hand-- and then whirling on Jasmine, sternly saying, “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He grabbed her upper arms, gently, and started steering her down the street.

The sword fell to the sand, forgotten, and Jasmine whispered, heart pounding, “What are you doing?” She’d never seen the boy before in her life. Not that she minded the rescue, but… as rescues went, it was a confusing one.

“Just play along,” the boy hissed back.

The apple seller’s massive hand set down heavily on the boy’s shoulder. “You know this girl?”

“Sadly, yes,” the boy said, swiftly, easily. “She is my sister.” His voice dropped to a not-quite whisper, conspiratorial-- but just loud enough for Jasmine to hear him. “She’s a little crazy.”

… Really, crazy was the best he could do?

“She said she knew the sultan.” He was too suspicious and had the boy by the vest, now, whirling him away from Jasmine. She could run, but then he’d just have a new victim to bully.

But the boy laughed it off and murmured, “She thinks the monkey is the Sultan.”

… And sure enough, there was of all things a _monkey_ standing near the front of the crowd, inspecting someone’s loosely-hanging purse.

So Jasmine played along. “O, Wise Sultan!” she said, dropping to her knees, hands raised high before falling into the deepest, most supplicating salaam she could manage, ridiculously exaggerated, “How may I serve you?”

The monkey chattered, adorably imperious, and patted her on the head. Jasmine tried not to giggle hysterically into the sand. (Or inhale too deeply. The sand smelled fairly strongly of camel.)

“No harm done,” the boy told the seller-- had he given him a coin? Jasmine couldn’t see from where she was. Suddenly there was a hand at her shoulder, another at her waist, helping her up-- normal-sized hands, and the boy’s voice close to her ear. “Come along, sis, time to see the doctor.”

Keeping her face smiling and vacant, Jasmine greeted a camel, “Oh, hello, doctor, how are you?” as they passed. Play along.

“No, no, no, not that one. Come on, _Sultan,_ ” the boy called to his monkey.

The monkey chattered to the crowd, and bowed-- his laden little vest spilling out a necklace, a few coins, and what looked like five or six apples out onto the ground. His attention attracted by the jingling, the merchant turned in time to see the monkey snatch up what he could carry-- and the boy dragged Jasmine, who couldn’t _help_ laughing, not now-- away from the marketplace at a run.

Freedom was terrifying, and unexpectedly dangerous.

But she wanted it.

~*~

Aladdin had met a lot of girls. Aladdin had flirted with a lot of girls. But Aladdin had never met _anyone_ like her before.

She was beautiful-- more than beautiful. She was somehow some sort of _extra_ -beautiful, her skin almost seeming to glow, and her hands were _so_ soft. Her laugh was like water, her eyes warm and soft, her smile brilliant… and she kept up with him. Most of the day he’d been as easy on her as he could be-- he wasn’t stupid, she was no peasant girl, not even a rich merchant’s daughter, no matter how soft her hands were. Somebody had carefully kept this girl away from the world all her life, confusing ignorance and innocence, and apparently today had been the day she’d gotten sick of it and run off.

It was Aladdin’s lucky day.

So he went easy, as long as he could, showing her around Agrabah, listening to her explain that she honestly thought a little barefoot beggar boy could afford to buy apples from Farouk’s cart.

She asked him why people stole food. “I can understand why people would steal money,” she admitted. “Right now, I wish I had some of my own. But if the penalty for being caught stealing _one apple_ is losing your hand, why not just…”

“Steal enough money to buy the apples?”

She nodded. “If you could lose a hand for it, why steal something so small?”

“It’s… well, it’s a little bit about who you’re willing to hurt,” Aladdin said. “Farouk and Omar, the fruit merchants? I know they can afford to lose a couple apples or melons. A loaf of bread from a prosperous baker isn’t going to make or break him. … And, honestly, neither will a couple of coins from a fat purse. But if you take the _whole_ purse, that might not just spoil somebody’s morning or day, but their whole life. And honestly, it’s a lot safer to have the guards and the merchants mad at you-- who’ve got better things to do than worry about one little thief-- than the crowd.”

“And why is that?” She wasn’t objecting, or arguing morality-- she just wanted to know. It was flattering-- and fascinating.

“Rasoul and the other guards? They have to deal with every thief anyone spots, with every crime in the city. Once you lose them, you’re safe for the day.” Aladdin had plenty of experience with that. “Merchants? They can’t even go very far from where they’ve set up their carts chasing down a thief, or all the other thieves will rob them blind. But if you make the crowd laugh, if you make them root for the little guy--”

“Like you did today,” she concluded.

“Right. If you can do make them like you, they won’t chase after you, too. If you steal from somebody in the crowd, the _whole_ crowd can get angry and start after you. And that… gets ugly fast.”

“I think I understand.”

She never complained about being hungry, and they still had a couple of Abu’s apples. When the sun started to set, Aladdin asked her if she had anywhere to stay tonight. When she said no, he offered his own home-- thinking she’d object, or say that it wasn’t proper. But his mystery girl-- he never asked for her name, she’d give it when she was ready-- was clearly up for another adventure. She smiled, and said she’d like that.

He was sure she could manage the route to his ruined tower, so he led her up to the nearest rooftop-- “Almost there.”

When she stumbled over the lip of the roof, cheek pressed against his chest, Aladdin couldn’t help inhaling-- her cheek was softer than her hands. She pulled away, blushing. “I want to thank you for stopping that man.”

Ah. A change of subject. “Forget it.” Farouk didn’t deserve to judge anybody, at the prices he charged. … But two could play at the subject-change game. “So, this was your first time in the marketplace, huh?” Vaulting from one roof to the next was as easy as grabbing a pole and getting a good running start-- and it might impress his mystery girl. For her, Aladdin found a heavy beam to settle between the buildings.

“… It’s really that obvious?

“You do kinda stand out,” he admitted-- and she blushed. “I mean, uh-- you don’t seem to know how dangerous Agrabah can be.” Although she’d found out, first-hand-- and she was willing to learn. He leaned down to steady the beam, to make sure it was safe enough for her to cross-- and something whooshed over his head.

The girl stood behind him, smiling and sly. “I’m a fast learner,” she assured Aladdin, and tossed him her pole.

He handed it off to Abu, and moved to take her hand. “Come on. This way.”

She was incredible.

He led her to the tower, showing her where to watch her step and when to duck in the gloom-- and she agreed that coming and going as they pleased sounded fabulous.

“It’s not much,” Aladdin admitted, gathering up the tattered curtain in one hand, “but it’s got a great view.”

The sunset lit the city in warm red, edging onto violet, the palace at the end of the main street gleaming like an oasis, the white stone glowing pink, the golden domes glistening. “The palace looks pretty amazing, huh?”

“Oh… it’s wonderful.” She sounded a little distant.

“I wonder what it would be like to live there-- to have servants, valets…” 

“Sure, people who tell you where to go and how to dress,” his mystery girl concluded.

She was _definitely_ a rich man’s daughter. “That’s better than here.” He grabbed an apple from Abu. “You’re always scraping for food and ducking the guards.”

“You’re not free to make your own choices,” his mystery girl countered.

But he wasn’t quite listening. “Sometimes you feel so… trapped,” but the last word had been in chorus.

… She was trapped, too-- or had been. She was trying to change that. “So…” Conversation. It was hard to think with her smiling at him like that. He passed her an apple, rolling it down his arm, tossing it off his elbow “Where are you from?” She caught the apple, handily.

“What does it matter?” she said, lightly, shrugging. “I ran away, and I’m not going back.”

Aladdin passed his apple to Abu, willing to share (and unaware that Abu had other ideas about portion size). “Really? How come?”

“My father’s forcing me to get married,” she admitted.

“That’s…” Well, it was sad, but it wasn’t an unusual thing for a girl to be upset with her father about. On the other hand… this girl? _His_ mystery girl, married to some… fat rich man? Untouchable? “That’s awful,” Aladdin concluded, sincerely.

And a furry monkey paw snuck around his mystery girl’s hip, reaching for her apple. “Abu!”

There were moments Aladdin could swear he understood Abu, and even if this wasn’t one of the moments when his chattering sounded almost like speech, his body language and bared teeth and the way he swarmed up Aladdin and around his shoulders like a sandstorm made of spiders made it pretty plain that… well, he wanted his own apple, and he was pretty frustrated at not getting one.

Aladdin’s mystery girl, on the other hand, clearly hadn’t learned to speak Monkey in the day she’d known them. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh--” He should probably tell her to hand over the apple before somebody got bitten. “Abu says, uh--” And then, like lightning, inspiration struck. “Abu says that’s not fair.”

From the indignant mutter, Abu understood that Aladdin was translating… liberally.

“Oh, really?” Apparently, so did the girl. “And does _Abu_ have anything else to say?”

Aladdin shifted closer. “He wishes there were something he could do to help,” he offered.

“Mm.” She drew up next to him, meeting his eyes-- with something like _hope_ deep in hers. It was beautiful on her. “Tell him that’s very… sweet.”

She was incredible. Smart, funny, kind. More beautiful than any girl he’d ever seen. And she was leaning up toward him, eyes closed, lips parted, and as Aladdin leaned down just close enough to feel her breath against his lips, the guard Fasal bellowed “Here you are!”

~*~

The guards, apparently, could have been after either of them-- but Jasmine was so sure her father had sent them--

“Do you trust me?” the boy asked her, perched on the edge of his ‘window’ onto the city and the palace.

“… What?” The guards were hacking their way through the obstacle course of his stairs, and he was asking about her trust?

“Do you trust me?” he repeated, stretching out his hand for hers.

“Ye-es,” she allowed, slipping her hand into his while Abu scrambled up to cling to his shoulder.

“Then _jump!_ ” and Jasmine had _just_ enough time to shriek and wonder if she’d been insane to trust her thief, pulled out the window and falling through the air-- through the great hole in a broken dome, through an awning that slowed their fall, and onto a heap of loose sand. The boy pulled her to her feet immediately and towed her toward fading sunlight at the door-- and ran full-force into Rasoul’s not inconsiderable bulk.

The captain of the guard closed his hand around the boy’s throat. “We just keep running into each other, don’t we, street rat?”

Abu shoved Rasoul’s turban down over his eyes, shrieking as the boy elbowed Rasoul in the stomach.

While Rasoul scrambled to get Abu off of him, and shove his turban back into place, the boy grabbed her hand again-- “Run! Go! Get out of here!” but the doorway was blocked by four other guards-- Jasmine wasn’t sure of their names, and before they could find another way out, Rasoul had tossed Abu-- somewhere-- that poor monkey-- and snatched Aladdin’s vest as they passed.

“It’s the dungeons for you, boy,” he announced, tossing him to the rest of the guards.

Jasmine couldn’t let that happen, latching onto Rasoul’s arm and hitting him… entirely ineffectually. “Let him go,” she demanded, hoping her tone would at least buy them a moment or two. … It worked on Rajah.

Rasoul just laughed, called her a ‘street mouse,’ and tossed her aside like she didn’t weigh anything at all.

She didn’t know how to fight, but she knew how to fall, and how to get right back to her feet. “Unhand him,” she said, with all the weight and dignity she was capable of, “by order of the Princess.”

She’d remember how immediately Rasoul’s manner changed when she whipped off her headscarf for the rest of her life. “Princess Jasmine! What are you doing outside the palace? And with this street rat?” He sounded so worried, so confused, almost paternal-- but he was still talking down to her, as though he hadn’t just treated _her_ like a street rat.

“Your only concern, _Captain,_ is that I just gave you a command you are _not_ following,” Jasmine said. “ _Release him._ ”

“I would, Princess,” Rasoul said, and Jasmine wasn’t sure where ‘don’t upset the little girl’ stopped and ‘this woman could have me executed’ began, but there were traces of both in his voice. “Except my orders come from Jafar. You’ll have to take it up with him.”

And as the guards towed the boy away-- the petty thief, yes, but the petty thief who’d saved her hand-- Jasmine vowed that she’d do just that.

It took longer than she expected to get back to the palace-- she couldn’t just climb the wall again, and there were gatekeepers and sentries who had to be shown her face and her signet before they’d let her pass. She stopped long enough to strip her headscarf and caftan away before storming into the anteroom of Jafar’s apartments, calling his name.

He was, for some reason, standing against the far wall. “Princess. How _may_ I be of service to you?”

And he bowed strangely, flaring out his cape. Well, who knew why Jafar did anything? “The guards just took a boy from the market-- on your orders.” It came out as an accusation.

“Your father has charged me with keeping peace in Agrabah,” Jafar said, mildly. … So, Jasmine had just effectively accused him of doing his job. “The boy was a criminal.”

She knew that, and Rasoul knew that, but why would _Jafar_ have any interest at all in a petty thief? “What was his crime?” What had drawn the Royal Vizier’s interest?

“Why, kidnapping the princess, of course,” Jafar explained, as though he shouldn’t have to explain.

Distantly, Jasmine thought she heard Iago squawking, distressed, but the bird’s welfare was secondary right now. “No one kidnapped me,” she informed Jafar, “I ran away.” And it sounded childish when she put it like that, but it wasn’t nearly so important as freeing the boy.

Childish or not, it shocked Jafar. “Oh. _Dear._ ” He stepped away from the wall, toward the sofa, a hand worrying at his jaw, Jasmine trailing behind him. “Oh, how… _frightfully_ upsetting-- had I but known…”

… Upsetting. To Jafar. What had they done to the boy? “What do you mean?”

“Sadly, the boy’s sentence has already been carried out,” Jafar informed her, soberly.

Jasmine felt small, and cold. They thought he’d kidnapped her. And the sentence for stealing a single apple-- whether you realized you were helping to steal it or not-- was the loss of a hand-- which could, apparently, be done _in the marketplace,_ by your accuser, without so much as a guard’s intervention. “What… was his sentence?”

“Death,” and Jafar’s voice was like an icy wind. “By beheading.”

For a moment, Jasmine couldn’t see anything but the boy. His kind eyes, his sly smile, the fall of his hair. The way she could tell he thought she was beautiful, but behaved respectfully anyway. The slip of his shoulder as he rolled that apple through the air toward her-- and the way he’d put himself between Jasmine and danger, every time it rose up in front of her.

She sat, and was grateful there was something behind her to sit on. 

Jafar murmured something obviously meant to be soothing-- she only caught the particular way he pronounced “Princess,” the feel of his spidery fingers wrapping around her shoulders. 

“How could you?” Tears she didn’t know had been threatening started to spill, so Jasmine did the only thing she could think to do-- she ran.

Ultimately, she found herself in the garden, weeping into the peacock fountain. Heavy footsteps padded up behind her, and Rajah nudged at her arm. “This is all my fault,” she told him, knowing all the tiger really understood was that his mistress was unhappy. “I didn’t even know his name.” She wrapped her arms around the tiger’s neck, burying her face in his fur, soaking up his warmth.

She didn’t hear the rustle of movement behind her until a hand-- smooth, not quite warm, and _familiar--_ settled on her shoulder. “Would you like me to try and find out?” Mozenrath asked, gently.

~*~

The first thing he did was not the first thing he’d planned to do. The first thing Mozenrath did was just _hold_ Jasmine for a long few moments as she clung to him, as though her unhappiness could drown her and he could keep her afloat.

When she seemed a little steadier, he moved all four of them-- Jasmine, himself, Xerxes, and even the great bulk that was Rajah-- to Jasmine’s balcony. She let him lead her into her room, but the sight of the peasant clothes on her divan made her burst into fresh tears. “I saw you with him in his home,” Mozenrath told her, diplomatically avoiding calling it a hovel. “I watched everything from there, but I could only follow you. I’m so sorry.”

She’d liked the boy-- she’d damn near kissed him. Even if it would have driven him mad with jealousy, Mozenrath wouldn’t have abandoned the boy to a beheading he could’ve stopped, not if Jasmine wanted him.

“They thought he kidnapped me,” Jasmine managed. “He _saved_ me. He saved me, Mozenrath, and that got him killed-- I wish that merchant had just taken my hand!”

He held her tight, not at all certain what else to do-- Jasmine’s heart had broken, and his felt torn apart. “Tell me,” he said, after a moment, settling next to her on the divan. “Tell me about him. Tell me about your day with him.” His arm around her back, Xerxes wrapped around her shoulders, Rajah’s head tucked against her hip-- Jasmine was surrounded by every living creature she might call a friend-- barring, perhaps, a monkey that Mozenrath had lost track of.

Jasmine began, haltingly at first, telling the story of why she’d run-- which Mozenrath had expected, because certainly Jasmine trying to escape should convince the Sultan to at least postpone the deadline-- of how marvelous she found the marketplace, of the apple that had nearly gotten her mutilated and the shirtless, handsome peasant boy who smelled like monkey and saved her hand. She told Mozenrath about seeing the city from ground level, about seeing it with her young thief, what he’d shown her about Agrabah’s people-- and Agrabah’s laws. About how he was quite possibly the lowest peasant in the city-- but had treated her with respect every single moment. The tears started again when she admitted, “There were moments when he reminded me of you, so much…”

It was like being stabbed. He’d watched, magically, as Jasmine had nearly kissed her monkey-scented street thief… who reminded her of Mozenrath. “Did he? How so?”

“His hands,” she told him, quietly. “How he was always gentle when he touched me. And his-- the way he teased. He had this… wryness.”

“A pity he wasn’t a prince in disguise,” and why had he said that?

“If any prince had treated me the way that boy did, the odds are good I might be married,” Jasmine agreed. “It wasn’t how he looked, or that he saved me-- it was how he treated me. Like a person, with respect and humor… the way you…”

“Jasmine…” He had to stop her. There were things they’d never discussed, and now, when she was so upset, when she was struggling to bear up under the loss of someone who might have been-- well, what could her father do if she ran off and married a peasant boy, besides have the peasant boy killed? But it wasn’t the time. Not now. She wasn’t in any condition to hear why he wasn’t in any position to play her Prince Charming-- not now.

But she was looking up at him, her eyes damp but knowing-- and infinitely sad. “I understand,” she assured him. “I’ve always understood. It’s only… now I know…”

“What?” Prompting, not astonished. It ached, to know he hadn’t been alone in those idle daydreams, the life he could plan and plan that would never truly exist.

But it wasn’t an ache he’d trade away.

“It’s something about the princes,” she concluded. “The suitors. It isn’t _me._ There’s nothing wrong with me-- there _are_ men in the world who can…” Jasmine trailed off, tucking her head against his shoulder, cradled against the stiffened upward sweep.

“Who have enough sense to make sure of their welcome,” he concluded, quietly.

“Mm,” and it was a small, agreeable sound, and Mozenrath risked settling his cheek against Jasmine’s hair for just a moment.

Really, the only remotely fair thing to do would be to make sure Jasmine’s future husband knew about the humble peasant boy who had saved the Princess, who had made such an impression on her. As long as the husband had a ghost to be jealous of, Mozenrath might not lose his mind to being jealous of the _husband._ For so long, Jasmine had been his alone in so many ways, and today, taking her first steps into the world, Jasmine had managed to stumble into the arms of someone _else_ who was…

… Well, who was at least as worthy of her as Mozenrath was. At least as a peasant, he wouldn’t have the princely assumption that everything he wanted would be handed to him on a silver platter.

No.

Wouldn’t have _had._

“I’m sorry he’s lost,” Mozenrath said, softly. “I could have-- I _would_ have given him enough to keep you. Enough to get the two of you started somewhere, at least.”

“Mozenrath…” It was barely a whisper.

But he would have. He had an allowance, after all (even if it wasn’t a regular allotment as much as mentioning he could use a bit of money and being told to help himself, but don’t buy another blasted griffin egg), and he could think of no better use for it. “I don‘t want to encourage you to run off and find another hero, but… all things considered, if you _do_ find a husband you want to keep, I _will_ support your choice.” The boy could have made her happy.

Jasmine wrapped her arms around him, holding tight for a long moment-- only to stiffen suddenly at the sound of a knock on the door, and her father calling, “Jasmine?”

They leapt into silent, terrified action, Mozenrath gesturing for Rajah to _stay_ and Jasmine shifting Xerxes from her shoulders to Mozenrath’s, and Mozenrath tugging Jasmine to cover his body’s warm spot on the divan-- Jasmine pulled her feet up to cover her own and pulled Rajah’s head to rest on them as Mozenrath and Xerxes fled for a drapery-covered, deeply-shadowed corner of the room.

“Jasmine?” the Sultan called again-- this time opening the door. The sudden fear drained from Jasmine’s face as she turned to look at her father, and the tears started again. “… Oh, dearest. What’s wrong?”

“Father,” she managed. “Jafar has done… something terrible.”

“… There, there, my child,” he told her, gentle and encouraging, “we’ll set it right.” The old man-- obviously, obviously more familiar with how to comfort someone than Mozenrath was-- delicately chucked Jasmine’s chin, and settled on the edge of the divan next to her. “Now. Tell me everything.”

And having rehearsed it all with Mozenrath, she did.

~*~

“Jafar, this is an outrage,” the Sultan declared, and Jafar found himself loathing the man even more than he had the day before. “If not for all your years of faithful service-- from now on, you are to discuss the sentencing of prisoners with _me-- before_ they are beheaded!”

“I assure you, Your Highness, it won’t happen again,” Jafar told the fat, blustering fool, bowing. If he’d had the blasted boy in front of him at that moment, he would have beaten him to a pulp with his staff, damn the legality and damn the Princess‘s delicate sensibilities, too.

But it seemed to satisfy the Sultan. “Jasmine,” he said, reaching out for her hand, then gathering up one of Jafar‘s hands, as well, “Jafar. Now, let’s put this whole messy business behind us. Please?”

“My most abject and humblest apologies to you as well, Princess,” Jafar offered, and moved to kiss the girl’s hand.

Jasmine snatched it away. “At least _some_ good will come of my being forced to marry,” she spat. “When I am Queen, I will have the power to get rid of _you._ ” She turned on her heel and flounced off.

The Sultan hadn’t watched that part-- looked as though he were trying to keep his temper, in fact. “That’s all settled, then. Now, Jasmine, getting back to this suitor business-- Jasmine? … Jasmine!”

As the useless old man dashed off after his impossible, intractable daughter, Jafar’s courteous smile melted into a snarl. “If _only_ I’d gotten that _lamp!_ ”

Iago’s imitation of Jasmine was nearly perfect, only slightly too dainty, too feminine. “‘I will have the power to get rid of you.’” Generally, the Princess didn’t punctuate her threats with inarticulate grumbles, either. “To think we gotta keep kissing up to that chump and his chump daughter for the rest of our lives!”

Jafar made his way onto the balcony, watching the Sultan plead with his recalcitrant offspring at the fountain. “No, Iago,” he countered, “only until she finds a chump _husband._ Then she’ll have us banished.” A week ago, he might have said ‘dismissed,’ but then a week ago, he hadn’t told the Princess he’d had her commoner sweetheart-- oh dear. “Or beheaded.”

Iago’s reaction to that was no more pleased than Jafar’s-- but while Jafar dwelled on the image of it, Iago began babbling. “Oh! Wait a minute, wait a minute! Jafar! What if _you_ were the chump husband?”

“What?” Perhaps it came out excessively cross. Perhaps the spell that elevated Iago’s intelligence was unraveling, and he was starting to regurgitate phrases.

“Okay, _you_ marry the Princess, all right? And then _you_ become the Sultan,” or, the bird could just be thinking out loud, but there was a certain… elegance to the plan.

“Marry the shrew,” he mused, heading back into the throne room, “I become sultan.” He settled on the cushion of the great elephant throne, stroking a hand over the ball on one tusk. “The idea has… merit.” True, Jasmine would never make a bearable wife, but that was what harems-- and sturdy locks, and loyal, well-paid guards-- were for.

“Yes!” Iago agreed, “Merit, yes. And then? We drop Papa-in-Law and The Little Woman off a _cliff._ ” To illustrate, he dove from the head of Jafar’s staff to crash-land on the runner-- a fitting red. “Kersplat!”

Jafar couldn’t help chuckling. It wasn’t the lamp-- it didn’t bring with it two more wishes, backed by the reality-altering power of a djinni-- but he didn’t _have_ the lamp, and perhaps surprisingly for a plan cooked up on the spur of the moment by a parrot, Iago’s plan was _workable._ It could, if he were clever, net him the throne. And who better than the Sultan’s most loyal and trusted advisor to pore over the legal scrolls and find an obscure solution to the poor Princess’s looming deadline? All he had to do was convince the Sultan that it was perfectly legal and acceptable for the Royal Vizier, who already acted with all the untouchable authority of the Sultan himself, to step forward and accept the responsibility of marrying an otherwise unmarriageable sole female heir. And after that? Two little murders followed by absolute freedom. “I love the way your foul little mind works!”

~*~

Not that Aladdin knew anything about wishes, or the limits of a djinni’s power, or even a whole lot about royal spectacles, but he was pretty sure no one in the world had ever seen anything quite like ‘Prince Ali Ababwa’s’ grand parade along Agrabah’s high street. _He’d_ never seen anything like it, and he was the one riding on an elephant, shaking hands, blowing kisses, and tossing gold coins to the crowd. (Coins Genie promised him wouldn’t disappear. The massive retinue would vanish when they weren’t needed, but part of being a prince, a spectacular wish-granted prince with a good shot of getting Princess Jasmine’s attention and winning her heart, was being fabulously wealthy-- and tossing coins to the crowd that disappeared later wasn’t the kind of prince Aladdin wanted to pretend to be.)

He smiled, he waved, he watched Genie flit through the crowd, taking on different shapes to sing Prince Ali’s praises and tell about his exploits-- a fat merchant, an old man, a little child-- easily convincing people that _everyone_ had heard of Prince Ali, this just happened to be the first time anyone had mentioned him to _them._ Prince Ali Ababwa was world famous.

Aladdin had never been the center of so much _positive_ attention before.

… Okay, some of it could’ve been the things Genie had come up with to include in the parade. It just kept going and going and Aladdin was half-convinced some of the _scale_ of the ‘make me a prince’ wish was just Genie getting back into practice after so long-- seeing what he could do, or maybe showing off for the master who’d promised to set him free. There were stilt walkers and golden camel statues and men with bells and men with banners, dancing girls, a rolling platform covered in peacocks-- _purple_ peacocks-- and women to sing about them, there were monkeys and sword jugglers and even Abu, who wasn’t all that thrilled with the whole ‘elephant’ thing, had gotten into the spirit, marching to the beat of the music.

Aladdin was feeling pretty good about himself-- himself as Prince Ali, anyway-- when they paraded into the throne room. Genie disappeared under his turban during a flourish in the music, and some man dressed in black shooed ‘Ali’s’ retainers back out the door, but Aladdin stood as boldly as he could on Carpet, who carried him swiftly down from Abu’s back right in front of the Sultan’s massive, golden, elephant-headed throne. (So, elephant: good call, Genie.) Aladdin bowed, deeply, and the Sultan?

The Sultan applauded, delighted. “Splendid!” he declared, “Absolutely marvelous!”

Aladdin had this one in the bag. He cleared his throat, dropping his register to sound… a little older, a little more heroic, and hopped down off of Carpet. “Your Majesty, I have journeyed from afar to seek your daughter’s hand.”

“Prince Ali Ababwa, of course,” the Sultan agreed, dashing forward, vigorously shaking Aladdin’s hand. “I’m delighted to meet you. This is my Royal Vizier, Jafar, he’s delighted, too,” and the Sultan stepped aside to introduce the darkly-dressed man, who was tall, thin, carried a cobra-headed staff that _also_ looked to be made of gold (well, maybe gold-leafed wood, but still), and had a parrot on his shoulder.

Neither Jafar nor his parrot looked particularly delighted, and the vizier greeted ‘Ali’ with the single most unenthusiastic, “Ecstatic,” Aladdin had ever heard. “I’m afraid, Prince Abooboo--”

“Ababwa,” Aladdin corrected, graciously, bowing-- the plume on his turban catching Jafar right in the nose.

… Oops.

Jafar waved the feather-- and the correction-- off. “Whatever. You cannot just parade in here, uninvited, and expect to--”

“By Allah,” the Sultan piped up-- from the floor, where he knelt, prodding at Carpet, “this is quite a remarkable device.” In answer to being prodded, Carpet tweaked the Sultan’s mustache. (Aladdin hoped rugs couldn’t be tried for affronting the Sultan’s person.) Luckily, the Sultan didn’t seem to take offense. “I don’t suppose I might, ah…” He trailed off, then simply pointed.

Up. “Hm?” The Sultan looked up at Aladdin with a hopeful smile and childlike eyes.

And, honestly, Carpet was probably one of the more responsible, level-headed (metaphorically speaking) people Aladdin had ever met. If he were going to trust the health and safety of a head of state to any friend of his, Carpet would top the list. “Why, certainly, Your Majesty. Allow me?”

Not that it took much of a leg-up to get a rather short man onto a rather low-floating carpet.

And then Jafar-- whose staff was metal all the way through, the way it struck against the marble floor-- basically _stabbed_ Carpet with the thing, pinning him down. “Sire, I must advise against this.”

Before Aladdin could assure Jafar that a Carpet ride was entirely safe, the Sultan defended himself. “Oh, button up, Jafar. Learn to have a little fun!” He kicked the staff away and he and Carpet were off.

_Way_ off, hurtling around the room at ‘escape the Cave of Wonders’ speeds, the Sultan laughing all the while, even as they darted under Abu’s belly. Aladdin kept an eye on them-- until the vizier stepped up again. “Just… where _did_ you say you were from?” he asked, as low and dangerous as any shopkeeper’s ‘You were planning to pay for the merchandise you slipped into your pants, weren’t you, young man?’

The trouble was, Genie hadn’t actually given ‘Prince Ali’ a country. The trappings of princedom were easy, but while Genie assured Aladdin that yes, he absolutely was a genuine prince of somewhere (or something), Genie had no idea _where._ For all Aladdin knew, he was Prince of the Tiny Oasis where he’d made his first wish.

So he faked it. “Oh, much farther than you’ve traveled, I’m sure.”

Jafar took it as a challenge. “ _Try me._ ”

“Look out, Polly!” the Sultan cried from above-- and steered Carpet over their heads, clipping Jafar’s parrot, and starting a chase Aladdin couldn’t quite look away from. The bird managed to avoid being crashed into by Carpet and the Sultan, but rammed beak-first into a pillar.

“Should you… see to your bird?”

“He’s fine,” Jafar said, offhanded.

“Out of the way, I’m coming in to land!” the Sultan cried. “Jafar, watch this!” Carpet handily delivered the Sultan safely to the floor-- then _Carpet_ staggered off, dizzy, while the Sultan chuckled happily, only a little out of breath.

“Spectacular, Your Highness,” Jafar said, as enthusiastically as he’d said ‘ecstatic.’

The Sultan declared the ride lovely, and proclaimed he had a knack for flight-- then reached up to pinch Aladdin’s cheek. “This is a very impressive youth! And a prince besides!” He stepped away to murmur a conversation with Jafar-- Aladdin couldn’t hear it, but he could guess. The Sultan was wowed and taken in, but Jafar was suspicious. The Sultan audibly declared himself an excellent judge of character. “Jasmine will like this one!”

_Yes!_ Halfway there, the Sultan won over. “And I’m pretty sure I’ll like Princess Jasmine,” Aladdin agreed, leaning in close and conspiratorial. Winning over Jasmine would be the easy part-- he’d done it once before, with nothing but an apple and some bad translations of Monkey. With all of Prince Ali’s trappings (and amazing ability to smell like it wasn’t hot outside), how could he lose?

Jafar slipped between them-- skinny as a rake, but he made a heck of a barrier when he stood up at his full height and spread his arms. “Your Highness, no. I must intercede-- on Jasmine’s behalf. This boy is no different than the others.” He rounded on Aladdin, in his face-- but still speaking to the Sultan. “What makes him think he is worthy of the Princess?”

“Your Majesty,” Aladdin said-- and at least he knew the proper address for a Sultan, what was with the ‘highness’ stuff? “I am Prince Ali Ababwa,” he declared-- and tweaked Jafar’s twisted little beard, just to see if he could get away with it. Turned out, he could. “Just let her _meet_ me. I will win your daughter.”

Aladdin was well aware that everyone had moments in their life when they managed to miraculously say _exactly_ the right thing-- or _precisely_ the wrong thing. He did want to hear Jasmine’s voice again, but to hear her voice pitched low and full of barely restrained fury echoing across the throne room?

… Not high on his list.

“How _dare_ you?” Jasmine demanded. “All of you!” And… yes, the Sultan and Jafar did look about as awkward as Aladdin felt. “Standing around deciding _my_ future? I am not a prize to be won!”

“Of course you’re not,” said a voice behind Aladdin-- deep, but not Jafar’s voice, and in the split second before he turned around he saw something swiftly change in Jasmine’s expression.

The newcomer was a man about Aladdin’s age, almost as lean as Jafar, who managed to be more richly dressed than Prince Ali Ababwa while nearly blending into the shadows of the room. He was also the single palest person Aladdin had ever seen-- and he seemed to have a short, fat gray snake twining around his padded shoulders.

“One of your retainers?” Jafar demanded of Aladdin. “Court sorcerer, perhaps?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” and that was one of the first completely honest things Aladdin had said since marching through the city gates on the back of a monkey-turned-elephant.

“I should say not,” the stranger agreed, striding up to the three of them. “I am Mozenrath,” and his bow was only slight, “apprentice-- and heir-- to Destane, Lord of the Land of the Black Sand. I, too, am here to sue for Princess Jasmine’s hand--” though from the corner of his eye, Aladdin caught the Princess leaving the room when she heard that-- “but I do believe it was worth the journey just for that glimpse of her.”

“Well,” the Sultan said, decisively, taking Aladdin’s elbow, then reaching for Mozenrath’s (really, what was that thing on his shoulders? It had _fins_ ), “as it seems both of you gentlemen have done some traveling, and Jasmine… needs a bit of time to cool off… why don’t we find you a pair of guest rooms to settle into, hm? Freshen up a bit before dinner?”

~*~

Jafar was _not,_ by any means, the most powerful sorcerer in the world (though it had been on the shortest edit of his very literal wish list, before losing the lamp). Generally, he needed specialized and specially prepared equipment to do more than the most minor of workings, and he rarely sought to contact other sorcerers via magic.

A mirror, a candle, and a touch of black sand (swept up from the floor of the throne room in young Mozenrath’s wake, the boy never noticing) was enough to interrupt Destane’s afternoon reading.

“… You had best have a very good reason for your intrusion, little hedge wizard,” Destane said, testily. “You do not find a patient man in a good mood.”

“And I _do_ apologize for the intrusion, Lord Destane,” Jafar said, bowing just enough to be courteous without actually taking his eyes off of Destane. “I am Jafar, both a humble dabbler in the magical arts, and the Royal Vizier of Agrabah. I assure you, I seek you out only to ask a simple question, and one with a yes-or-no answer at that.” He was pressing his luck, but this was the sort of inquiry where one needed to make an impression, not simply convey the necessary information.

“Ask it quickly, dabbler.”

“Did you give your apprentice-- Mozenrath, I believe-- permission to court the Princess Jasmine, of Agrabah?”

A very brief conversation later, Jafar was assured that one of his handsome young problems would be resolved by the end of the night. Ending the spell and removing Destane’s face from the mirror, Jafar looked to Iago-- who had stayed out of sight for the duration. Destane, after all, was not a force to be trifled with.

“And now, I think it’s time to arrange to say goodbye to Prince Abooboo.”

~*~

Jasmine had fled to her room the moment Mozenrath declared his intentions. It was that, or shriek in excitement and give the whole thing away.

He had declared his intentions! He had all but proposed, there in front of her father, Jafar, and that ridiculous popinjay Prince Ali!

If Father followed the usual patterns, first he’d give them rooms, then he’d feast them without Jasmine present, then he’d convince them the smart thing to do would be to rest, and meet with Jasmine in the morning, when everyone was fresh. With any luck, he’d let Mozenrath take his turn first, but Father had seemed to like Prince Ali, so Jasmine couldn’t count on that.

Ah well. Rajah would be helpful, if it came to that.

Jasmine hid in her rooms, buzzing with excitement, trying to look frustrated when a servant arrived with a dinner tray for her. The only tricky part would be Destane; he was a danger. The two of them might be able to run, to make it on their own, but then Agrabah would be without a future Sultan. 

… Maybe if Father liked Prince Ali enough, he could just declare him his heir and be done with it.

Surely, surely they could work something out. 

Before she could start working her way through possibilities to share with Mozenrath later, someone called her name.

Someone _on her balcony_ called her name, and the voice sounded familiar.

“Who’s there?”

Rajah growled, but Rajah also lent her confidence. Maybe she couldn’t fight (and maybe she should learn), but she could certainly count on Rajah to listen to her (unless he was sleeping or eating, but that was to be expected. He was a cat).

“It’s me,” the voice called-- boyish, young-- “Prince Ali--” her visitor cleared his throat, and his voice dropped. “Prince Ali Ababwa.”

Oh. Him.

Jasmine parted the curtains enough to let Prince Ali get a good clear look at her telling him, “I do _not_ want to see you.” And how had he gotten onto her balcony anyway? Did he have a grappling hook? Not that it was important-- she turned and headed back into her room.

“No-- no, please, Princess, just give me a chance,” and he’d forgotten to make his voice deep again. _Ridiculous._ Absolutely ridiculous and utterly full of herself, and when Rajah growled at the prince, it felt like he was reading Jasmine’s mind.

“Just leave me alone,” she called from inside.

And then for a moment, she didn’t hear anything but snarling.

Guilt made her check-- just to see if Rajah had forced him off the balcony or actually started to eat him or… something.

Ali was perched on the balustrade, turban in hand, trying to shoo Rajah, soothingly murmuring things like ‘nice kitty’ and ‘good kitty’ and ‘down kitty’ and ‘look, a mouse!’ to absolutely no effect.

It was Jasmine’s first good look at Prince Ali’s face, and he looked… familiar, somehow. A little like Mozenrath’s inverse, but something about him with his hair exposed… “Wait,” Jasmine said, stepping out onto the balcony. “Do I know you?”

“Uh-- no,” he said, awkwardly shoving his turban back on as Rajah stalked back to Jasmine’s side. “No.”

Still, she decided to test it-- could it be? It was dark, and the light from her room didn’t exactly flood the balcony… “You remind me of someone I… met in the marketplace.”

“The marketplace?” he started, still awkward (well, it wasn’t every day a man tried to pretend he hadn’t been threatened by a tiger), but also amused and dismissive.

But before he could tell her that when he wanted something, it appeared in his hand, or some other garbage, Ali’s eyes grew wide and he pointed past her, into the room-- “Fire!”

She whirled around to see before she realized that would be a _really_ easy way for Prince Ali to slither back down whatever he’d slithered _up_ while her back was turned-- but there truly was a burst of fire in Jasmine’s room, the blue-black flames she knew very well indeed, that coalesced around-- “Mozenrath!” She dashed through the curtains, ignoring Prince Ali for what was probably the first time in his life.

Mozenrath looked pale, even for him, and Jasmine stopped short of throwing her arms around his shoulders. “Is everything all right?”

“No.” His eyes flicked past her for a moment-- so Ali was still there-- and he stayed sober and stone-faced as he said, “To my deepest regret, Princess, I fear I must withdraw my suit.”

“Mozenrath, what happened?” They hadn’t even begun.

“Please,” he said, then wavered, and Jasmine slipped her arm around his back-- he was so pale, so drawn, she was afraid he’d fall-- but he hissed at the touch, and Jasmine snatched her arm back, suddenly suspecting just why Mozenrath had to withdraw.

“Princess,” Ali said, a few steps inside the doorway-- his eyes wide as Jasmine turned to find out what in blazes he wanted. “Your arm.”

So Jasmine looked down at her arm.

There were streaks of blood stamped across it.

They were irregular, indistinct, having soaked through the fabric everywhere Jasmine’s arm had touched Mozenrath’s back.

Jasmine felt something harden inside her. _Destane._ “Sit,” she ordered Mozenrath.

“Jasmine--”

“ _Sit,_ ” she hissed, “before you fall. You!” she whirled on Prince Ali-- but pointed at Mozenrath. “Get him stripped to the waist. I’ll be right back. Rajah, do not let _either_ of them leave.” Mozenrath knew Rajah couldn’t really understand an order that complicated, but Mozenrath wasn’t in any condition to go anywhere. Hopefully, Ali would be thick enough not to realize her tiger was just a tiger. Jasmine marched toward the door to her private bath-- then turned back to look at Mozenrath. “Is Xerxes…?”

“Fine,” Mozenrath promised her. “He’s fine. He’s safe, I swear it.”

“Praise Allah,” Jasmine exhaled, and left the two of them alone.

~*~

Aladdin had a _lot_ of questions, but he was going to bite his tongue until he saw how badly this Mozenrath guy was hurt. Mozenrath tried to shove him off at first-- not that he was any good at shoving, as shaky as he was-- but Aladdin looked him in the eye. “Listen, I understand you’re a sorcerer, apprentice to a sorcerer-lord, I get it, you are very intimidating. But _she’s_ terrifying right now, plus the tiger listens to her, so c’mon, work with me here.”

… He was starting to sound like Genie. Pretty soon, he’d start thinking of himself as Al.

It worked, though-- Mozenrath took a deep breath and started unlacing his collar. Aladdin pulled it off and set it aside, the cape attached, then pulled off Mozenrath’s turban-- the guy had a ton of hair, in messy curls. Extra-messy, from being trapped under a turban all day, but it was altogether too easy to imagine Jasmine’s fingers in that hair.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it, and helped Mozenrath get out of his shirt. Somehow, the dark blue hid the blood really well-- Aladdin could feel the wet, but only barely see the stains.

The gray pleated shirt he wore next to his skin didn’t fare so well, the back thickly streaked. “Yikes.” There were laces to undo, since that one went all the way up his neck, and by the time Aladdin had Mozenrath stripped to the waist, he’d gone from chalky to grayish, hands holding tight to the edge of the divan to keep him steady. 

Someone had gone at Mozenrath with a whip.

Not a lot of lashes, but about half a dozen evenly-spaced ones-- too hard, since they all broke the skin, but at least they looked like they’d heal cleanly if they were decently tended. Mozenrath must’ve felt like his whole back was on fire. “Okay, wow, this-- this needs bandages. Hang on.” He pulled off his turban and slipped the lamp out of it-- Mozenrath was probably too out of it to think hiding an oil lamp under your hat was weird-- then pulled the brooch and the plume off his turban, setting them down on Jasmine’s vanity table, with the lamp.

And then, naturally, the stupid magically-made turban wouldn’t unravel no matter how he tugged or what he pulled at. “Hey. Mozenrath, hey?” When the sorcerer looked up at him, Aladdin held out the turban. “Help me figure out how to unwind this thing? I can’t get it started.”

Mozenrath nodded, and reached to accept the turban-- then spotted the lamp.

From the look on his face, not only was he _not_ too out of it to realize it was out of place, he was knowledgeable enough to know it was no ordinary oil lamp. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked Aladdin.

Aladdin didn’t get the chance to answer, because Jasmine returned and, seeing him in good light with his turban off, cried out, “You _are_ the boy from the marketplace! I knew it!”

Aladdin turned to lie, or apologize-- and ended up staring. Jasmine was carrying a tray loaded down with bandages, a bowl of something, a jar of something, and what looked like a pair of scissors from his angle. “You had all that just lying around?”

“I have a pet tiger,” she explained, reasonably enough.

“I think,” Mozenrath said, “that you have quite a story to tell, Ali.”

“I’m not the only one,” Aladdin countered. “How does the Princess know who Xerxes is? She skipped dinner.”

“No,” Jasmine decided. “I have work to do and Mozenrath… may not like that work. You’re going first. Grab that stool and move it next to the divan, I need somewhere to put all this.”

“Do you need me to do anything?” Aladdin asked her, moving the vanity stool where she directed.

“If I do, I’ll tell you.” She set down the tray and collected a clean cloth from the tray, soaking it and starting to wipe down Mozenrath’s back.

He winced just at those touches, no matter how gentle Jasmine tried to make them. “Ali?” she asked, rinsing the cloth. Her water would be pink before long.

“… Yes?”

“Start talking,” she said-- then mouthed, “distract him.”

… Genie _had_ said to tell her the truth. Aladdin settled on the floor, where Mozenrath could see him, not so far away he couldn’t jump up to help if Jasmine needed it. “I guess I should start at the beginning. My name _isn’t_ Ali Ababwa-- it’s Aladdin. I really am-- well, I really am a street rat, I guess. After the guards arrested me…”

He told them everything. The dungeon, the old man with his rubies, the Cave of Wonders, meeting Carpet, and why, if in a Cave of Wonders situation, you should probably leave your monkey at the door-- at least if you knew you could trust your ‘business’ partner. He told them about the old man’s betrayal, about Genie, about conning Genie into getting them out of the cave without using his first wish.

Mozenrath in particular had seemed to appreciate that part, and that was the point where Aladdin had noticed Carpet sidling in-- and beckoned him to come join them.

Then he told them about the oasis-- how Genie had explained the rules to him, but all Aladdin could think about was Jasmine. He told them about his first wish-- his only wish so far. “I knew I had to be a prince to even have half a chance. … But I… guess I was too late even before I met Jasmine.”

“… Yes and no,” Jasmine said. “You’re right that I didn’t meet Mozenrath this afternoon, but this is the first time he’s come as a suitor. One morning, when I was thirteen and being terribly lazy out in the garden, the air caught fire and a man fell out.”

Jasmine’s story had less adventure and more lonely rich people. She managed to describe a cage-- two cages, both shaped like palaces, Jasmine’s made out of expectations and laws, Mozenrath’s made out of an unbreakable apprenticeship and an inescapable master. Jasmine talked about making friends with the first person who’d treated her like a _whole_ person, about stolen friendship and nights spent talking, about knowing that just marrying her best friend wasn’t the easy way out that it seemed.

She spent a long moment looking down at Mozenrath’s back, slathered in balm, at that.

Jasmine told them that she sometimes found herself comparing her suitors to Mozenrath, and that most of them had compared pretty poorly. “Not in appearances. In simple manners-- and respect. The first person I met who managed to be a match for Mozenrath in treating me like a human being?” She offered Aladdin a soft, sad smile. “Was a street rat.”

Aladdin couldn’t help smiling back. Really, there was no hope for him-- it was painfully obvious how much Jasmine and Mozenrath loved each other, and Aladdin wasn’t really a prince. He couldn’t stand in their way. It wouldn’t be right.

But it was still nice to know Jasmine liked him better than a whole roll call of princes.

“A street rat,” Mozenrath added, quietly, “that Jasmine was told had been beheaded.”

“Wait-- what?” Aladdin’s head was still firmly attached to his shoulders.

“… Jafar did tell me that your sentence had already been carried out,” Jasmine mused, tidily wrapping bandages around Mozenrath’s torso. “Almost as soon as I got back to the palace.”

“I just met Jafar today. I don’t know why he lied to you, Jasmine.”

“… I believe you,” Jasmine decided. 

“You do?” Mozenrath asked, wry.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, there,” Aladdin told him.

“Jafar and I have never gotten along,” Jasmine explained, patiently. “He likes to upset me, when he can-- he might have told me you were dead just to stop me from asking about you, or interfering in his work.”

“… Maybe. It’s still weird.”

“Mm. Jasmine,” Mozenrath asked, “and… my apologies for not being able to keep to one subject, but. How would you feel about marrying a man who can’t tell the world his real name?”

“… Mozenrath…” But it was a protest.

“Ali Ababwa,” he corrected, gently-- tiredly.

“She loves you,” Aladdin told him. “It’s really pretty obvious.”

“I wish that were the point,” Mozenrath sighed. “Aladdin-- _Ali._ I want to marry Jasmine. You have no idea how much. But Destane has made it very clear to me that… marriage is… not allowed to me.”

“So fight for her,” Aladdin said. It was a few stripes on his back-- painful, sure, but Aladdin had seen worse.

“I’m protecting her. … I should never have stopped.”

“Destane threatened her?”

“I won’t repeat what Destane threatened. … I’m fairly certain that given he’s a head of state, some of the things he said might legally count as acts of war.” He shook his head, hair falling into his face. “I have no choice, and Jasmine’s father has refused all her hints, suggestions, and even outright demands to change the marriage law somehow. I concede, ‘Ali.’ She needs you.”

Jasmine slipped off the divan and knelt in front of Mozenrath, looking up at him. “I refuse to lose you.”

“You won’t. Give me a few months-- Destane will calm down, and I’ll be able to come and see you again.”

Aladdin stood, heading to the vanity to put his turban back together. 

“I don’t know if I can go back to the way things were,” Jasmine told him, “not after-- Mozenrath, couldn’t we just _run?_ ”

Plume, brooch, lamp.

“Not worried about your duty to your kingdom anymore, Princess?” Mozenrath asked, warm and wry and sad.

“You two have a lot to talk about,” Aladdin concluded. “I’ll just… give you some time? An hour?”

“This concerns you, too,” Mozenrath told him.

“Some of it does. You two working out what you want your relationship to be? That’s private. You guys work that part out, and when I get back, we’ll figure out where I fit in.” If he fit in. Mozenrath looked like he still wanted to object, but Jasmine looked up at him and nodded. “C’mon, Carpet. Let’s give them some privacy.”

Carpet floated over to wrap around Jasmine’s shoulders in a hug, reaching out a tassel to pat Mozenrath’s hand, as well, before heading over to where Aladdin could hop on. 

They got as far as the balcony before something started buzzing in Aladdin’s ear. 

“Bzz. Bzz. Pst. So, hey, Al,” oh-- Genie, tiny, and pretending to be some kind of… really weird bee. “Guess who was a fly on the wall for… all that?”

“I guess I kinda blew the prince wish, didn’t I?”

“Depends on what you wanna do with it,” Genie said, shrugging. “You okay?”

“Right now, I think I just want some quiet,” Aladdin admitted.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk? You know my number.” With that, Genie disappeared under Aladdin’s turban and into his lamp.

And that… was okay, really. Aladdin couldn’t think this mess through _and_ try and figure out Genie’s sense of humor at the same time. “Let’s go check on Abu, huh, Carpet?” He flopped back on Carpet, looking up at the stars-- and as they drifted downward, up at Jasmine’s balcony. It wouldn’t do him any good to get jealous of whatever might be going on up there (not that it could be much, with Mozenrath’s back in shreds), because whatever it was, the two of them needed it-- deserved it. 

… They deserved each other, not to have Aladdin or Destane or anyone getting in their way. But it if Aladdin was Jasmine’s only option, if she’d be in _worse_ trouble if she didn’t get married tomorrow…

“We’re all still trapped,” he sighed.

Then the sky was blotted out with grasping hands and Aladdin was scrambling over the ground trying desperately to escape the guards-- only this time, he had _no idea_ why.

He was gagged, quickly, and managed to spot Abu, dangling from a net, saw Rasoul tie Carpet around a tree just as someone clapped manacles on him from behind-- and then a ringing metal staff struck the pavement in front of him. Aladdin looked up-- way up-- at Jafar.

Had Jafar found him out? Had Rasoul recognized him the way Jasmine did?

“I’m afraid you’ve worn out your welcome, Prince Abooboo,” Jafar intoned

So no one knew _anything_ \-- what was going on? -- Jasmine and Mozenrath had no idea--

“Make sure he’s never found,” Jafar ordered, stalking away.

And then everything went black.

~*~

A rub at the lamp was a peculiarly insistent feeling, like an itch in the arch of your foot that you just couldn’t get because you were currently dressed as Paul Stanley but there was absolutely no way to deny it, and it was going to drive you crazy until you stripped off your six-inch silver platform knee-high boots and scratched that sucker with the base of the microphone stand.

Only there was no putting it off, especially from _inside_ the lamp. You had to answer somehow.

And if there was one thing Genie knew, it was how to make an entrance. He squeezed his rubber ducky, scrubbed at his back, and groused, “It never fails, you get in the bath and there’s a rub at the lamp. Hello?”

… Hey, wait a second. Since when was Aladdin filmed on the set of The Little Mermaid? How long _was_ an hour, that Al had taken a moonlight swim? … A moonlight swim in shackles, a gag, and a ball and chain, so… probably not by choice here.

“Al?” Check for responsiveness, that was proper medical procedure. “Al! Kid!”

Except all Genie could _do_ was check for responsiveness. “Snap out of it! You can’t cheat on this one!” There were freebies you were tricked into and freebies that made sense at the time and freebies that were practically mandated by narrative causality or Network Standards and Practices, and then there was the stuff that just plain wasn’t allowed. “I can’t help you unless you make a wish!”

How long could humans manage underwater? How long had Aladdin _been_ underwater? There weren’t any bubbles and he was unconscious, so that was probably a bad sign, but he was still Genie’s master, so that was a good sign. “You have to say, ‘Genie, I want you to save my life.’ Got it? Okay? _Come on, Aladdin!_ ”

It was probably actually really bad to shake an unconscious human like that. Genie did it anyway.

… On the upside, Aladdin’s head bobbed up and then down, totally a textbook nod.

It was enough to satisfy the rules. “I’ll take that as a yes. _AOOOOGAH!_ ” And of course the proper shape for a good ‘aoooogah’ was a submarine, and all right, so most submarines didn’t have arms, or speak in a dialect of German only known to Danny Kaye, but the _important_ part was grabbing Aladdin and his turban (because _lamp_ ) and getting out from Under The Sea and swapping the seawater in Al’s lungs for dry desert air.

And maybe Genie did that part a little bit abruptly, because the first thing Al did on hitting dry land was cough up a storm. “Don’t you _scare_ me like that,” Genie admonished. Jinkies. He’d had _how_ many masters, and finally found a good one, and someone has to go and try to _drown_ the poor kid?

“Genie…” Genie waited. Al either needed to gather his thoughts or use his words or possibly yak up a sardine, who knew. “… Thanks, Genie.” 

Or maybe he needed to wrap his arms around the Djinni of the Lamp in a big moist hug. “Aw, Al. I’m gettin’ kinda fond of you, kid.” He plopped Aladdin onto his shoulders, handing him the lamp-and-turban wrap. “Not that I want to pick out curtains or anything.”

With that, they were on their way back to Agrabah, faster than non-magically possible. Al had just enough time to explain that the game was afoot but he wasn’t sure what the game was-- only who was moving pieces around, and that their endgame had already started.

~*~

It had taken Jasmine far longer than she wanted to think about to get Mozenrath into a position where he could sleep a little. She’d finally convinced him that even if he did have to return to the Land of the Black Sand before dawn-- even if tomorrow would be the first birthday in three years where she couldn’t expect to see him after the feast-- he needed to rest at least briefly before he tried transporting himself across the desert. They’d gotten most of his clothes back on-- his shirt and undershirt mundanely washed and magically dried, the rest of it too fussy to nap in.

Jasmine sat beside him as he lay half-sprawled on her divan, on his chest, head propped up on his arms. She hummed an old song, now and then singing a few snatches, a poem by an Agrabahnian philosopher that had been set to music long after his death. 

She hoped it soothed him. It soothed her, a little. “Freedom to stretch these golden wings…”

It certainly presented a prettily domestic picture for the chaperone, an apple-faced old woman who had patted Jasmine’s hand and told her, “Call me Euphegenia, dear, it‘s an allusion.”

‘Euphegenia’s’ hands only had four fingers each. It was hardly noticeable, until she noticed it-- and then it was all Jasmine could see.

“Jasmine?”

Her father’s voice sounded strange. “Father. I’m glad you’re here.” She stood up, crossing the room to meet him at the door. “Lord Mozenrath has fallen ill-- he’s resting now, but he needs to leave for home by morning…”

“Such a pity he will miss the wedding,” her father replied, still strange and flat, without emotion. Jasmine bit down on her fear.

“What wedding?”

“I have chosen a husband for you,” and it wasn’t speaking so much as intoning. “You will wed Jafar.”

Jafar pushed open the other half of the double door, leering at her.

Jasmine could only stare, for the moment-- so this was the game?

“You’re speechless, I see,” Jafar purred, taking Jasmine’s hand. “A fine quality in a wife.”

“I will never consent,” she said, snatching her hand away and resisting the urge to wipe it against her thigh. “Father,” maybe he could hear reason, “Prince Ali has proven himself-- I choose him.”

“Prince Ali left,” Jafar said lightly, “like all the others.”

And from near where he’d been hiding, tucked behind a curtain, Aladdin called out, “Better check your crystal ball again, Jafar.”

Mozenrath started to pull himself to stand, while Jafar’s attention was engaged. If ‘Euphegenia’ helped him with magic, it was very discreetly done.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth, Jafar?” Aladdin challenged, advancing on Jafar. “You tried to have me killed.”

“What ridiculous nonsense!” But Jafar still put her father between himself and Aladdin. “The boy is obviously lying.”

“Obviously… lying,” the Sultan echoed. As long as Jafar could make her father say anything he wanted, their plan-- giving Jafar enough metaphorical rope to possibly literally hang himself with-- wouldn’t work.

What had Jafar _done?_ “Father, what’s wrong with you?” Jasmine begged, pulling her father out of Jafar’s reach.

“I know what’s wrong,” Aladdin declared, and snatched Jafar’s staff out of his hands, holding it high and out of Jafar’s reach.

The head of it exploded in a gout of blue flame.

Standing beside the divan, Mozenrath blew entirely illusory smoke from his fingertips, and he and Aladdin exchanged quick grins.

The Sultan shuddered, briefly-- “Ohh-- oh my!” And Jasmine sagged in relief-- he sounded like himself again.

“Your Majesty,” Aladdin said, brandishing the broken, smoking staff, “Jafar’s been controlling you with this.”

Mozenrath crouched on the floor, holding up a cracked ruby from the shattered mess. “All the power was in the stones. Cheap tricks, really.”

The Sultan looked from the staff to the mess to Jafar, spluttering-- finally clearly declaring, “You-- you traitor!”

The four of them advanced on Jafar, never mind whatever poison he was spewing about how everything could be explained.

“Guards! _Guards!_ ” the Sultan cried, and that was a little disappointing. Jasmine _had_ been hoping Aladdin would teach her to throw a punch.

Against Jafar’s wretched face.

“Well, that’s it,” Iago announced, “we’re dead. Forget it. Just dig a grave for both of us, we’re dead.”

_Uplifted._ But a parrot-- so no true indication of how powerful Jafar might have been. A pair of the harem guards stormed the door, and her father wasted no time ordering them to arrest Jafar, who had stopped trying to justify himself and had started staring.

Or thinking-- his arms were still long enough to reach inside his robes, producing some sort of vial. “This is not done yet, boy!” he informed Aladdin, tossing the fragile thing to the ground even as Aladdin darted forward to stop him. A blinding flash and a cloud of smoke filled the air, choking all of them into a brief coughing fit-- and when the smoke cleared, Jafar, Iago, and the remains of the staff were gone, and the eunuchs were trying to keep each other in a headlock.

“Find him!” the Sultan bellowed. “Search everywhere!” The guards drew their swords and ran off to do just that.

Aladdin and Jasmine both helped Mozenrath get up-- the coughing had hurt his back enough to drop him to his knees, and the two of them at least knew not to touch his injuries. “Is everyone all right?” Aladdin asked.

“Jafar, my most trusted counselor!” the Sultan fumed. “Plotting against me all this time! This is horrible, just horrible! How will I ever…”

When he realized no one was listening, he looked around to see Aladdin and Jasmine helping Mozenrath back to the divan, to sit and steady himself. “Oh, my dear boy. You’re truly unwell? What happened?”

“An old complaint, nothing to worry about,” and if one could call Destane an ‘old complaint,’ it was true enough. And Jasmine would worry anyway. “I apologize for putting myself forward and removing myself so soon.”

“No, no, think nothing of it,” her father assured Mozenrath, patting his knee. “If you haven’t got your health, you haven’t got anything. You can be… properly treated, at home?”

“Of course,” Mozenrath lied. Destane was a necromancer to his core, which was completely incompatible with magical healing; Mozenrath dabbled in dozens of disciplines, but healing escaped him completely. He’d complained about it often enough. “I’ll return when I’m well-- with a wedding gift.”

And if there was pain in his eyes when he looked up at Jasmine, she was content to let her father believe it was due to the coughing fit.

“… Do my ears deceive me?” The Sultan looked up at Jasmine, smiling. “Has my daughter finally chosen a suitor?”

“It wasn’t an easy choice, Father,” but-- but even if it couldn’t be Mozenrath, at least it would be someone who saw her. Who didn’t just accept ‘no’ but waited for an invitation in the first place. It wouldn’t be perfect-- but it would be all right.

“Praise Allah!” her father declared, joyously-- and Jasmine flushed. He shook Aladdin’s hand and then pulled him into a desperate hug. “Oh, you brilliant boy, I could kiss you. … But I won’t, of course, I’ll leave that to my-- yes.”

“Sorry,” Jasmine murmured, both to Aladdin, who had at least been released and shoved toward Jasmine, and to Mozenrath and ‘Euphegenia,’ who were hiding their amusement only poorly.

“But you two will be married at once!” the Sultan decreed. “Yes! And you will be happy, and prosperous, and you-- you my boy, will become sultan!”

“… Sultan?” Aladdin echoed.

“Yes, a fine upstanding youth such as yourself, a person of your unimpeachable moral character, is _exactly_ what this kingdom needs.”

Aladdin looked petrified.

Jasmine slipped into his arms, hugging him-- trying to reassure. Once her father finished bubbling at them and left them to their chaperone’s care, she and Mozenrath would have time to explain the long-term plan. It wouldn’t be a truly happy ending for any of them, but it would be all right.

~*~

Jafar’s transport spell had only taken them as far as the hidden steps to his tower-- he’d run the rest of the way up, and sagged against the door. Iago scrambled to pack, preparing to escape, babbling all the while…

But all Jafar could do was laugh.

He had as good as already won! His ultimate goal had been placed within his grasp!

“Jafar?” Iago called, tapping at his turban. “Jafar! Get a grip!”

He caught the parrot by the neck-- the plan was sudden and flawless. How long had the boy known the Princess? Certainly not long enough to distinguish her voice from a near-flawless imitation-- especially distorted over any little distance. 

“… Good grip,” Iago gasped.

“Prince Ali is nothing more than that ragged urchin Aladdin,” Jafar spat-- but then, oh then, the best part-- “ _He has the lamp,_ Iago!”

“Why that miserable--”

“But you,” Jafar informed Iago, that faithful, _useful_ minion, “are going to relieve him of it.”

“Me?” Faithful, useful, and cowardly, but this wasn’t a mission that called for valor-- only deceit, patience, a passable carrying capacity, and the slightest bit of stealth. For Iago, only the stealth would be remotely difficult.

Jafar explained his plan.


	3. Free to Throw Away a Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasmine's sixteenth birthday starts off with a reasonable plan and an engagement announcement, and then Jafar gets the lamp and everybody's plans go right out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part! This part is not light reading, but you'll notice I didn't warn for an unhappy ending. Further Author's Notes and the full lyrics of To Be Free will be included at the end of the work (not included in the word count), for all your curiosity-satisfying needs.

It was Jasmine’s sixteenth birthday, the last day for her to marry and still be within the limits of the law. She and Mozenrath had kept Aladdin up late last night, outlining their plan.

Mozenrath would return to the Land of the Black Sand (had gone; Destane expected him by midnight, on pain of a lot more pain). He might be able to return to Agrabah eventually, but they wouldn’t see him for months, at least.

Aladdin, who would keep up the Ali Ababwa act for pretty much the rest of his life, would marry Jasmine today, after as massive a feast as the palace staff could throw together for as many important people who could arrive in time.

When Jasmine’s father decided to abdicate (Jasmine assured them that it probably wouldn’t be for a while, not until her father could be sure the decisions he’d made while Jafar had been his vizier were sound ones), Aladdin would become Sultan of Agrabah, with Jasmine as his Queen.

Mozenrath argued in favor of Aladdin naming Jasmine his Sultana, granting her some real political power of her own, but the general idea was for Jasmine-- who honestly mostly knew what she was doing-- to be the power behind the throne, helped out by Aladdin, who had a better grasp on how Agrabah’s laws affected everyday people.

Sultan Ali Ababwa would just be the guy who stood up and made proclamations and sat on the throne.

Someday, when Destane died and Mozenrath took the throne of the Land of the Black Sand, there would be a formal peace treaty between his kingdom and Agrabah.

And somewhere in all of that, he needed to set Genie free.

On the surface, even knowing the truth, it looked good. The humble street rat got to marry the beautiful princess he’d met in disguise in the marketplace, live a life of luxury, and inherit a throne. Happily ever after. 

_Under_ the surface, it looked smart-- Agrabah got a sultan who wouldn’t overlook the poorest commoners, a queen who knew what she was doing, and… okay, a really long-running con, but as long as Aladdin got used to answering to ‘Ali’ or ‘Your Highness’ (and nobody ever called the Sultan ‘Ahmed,’ so he probably could get used to that, eventually), there was no reason they couldn’t run the con indefinitely. Not a whole lot of work for a really big payout.

And there he was, in his gold-embroidered silk clothes, leaning on polished marble, looking out over shaded twin reflecting pools that were home to a flock of flamingoes, feeling like his heart was made of lead and had sunk all the way down to his stomach.

“Sultan,” he mused, and it just… didn’t feel right.

He turned away from the reflecting pool, trudging back toward the suite of rooms he’d been given to use-- a suite that was bigger than the entire tower he’d called home. The _doorway_ was bigger than the usable space up at the top, where he lived.

Blue smoke poured from the spout of the lamp, and Genie appeared, grinning and expectant and self-accompanying with a burst of triumphant music.

Aladdin kept walking. Somehow, he needed to figure out what to do-- if there was anything to do besides go along with the plan. 

But apparently, Genie was looking for a response, and met him walking into the room-- arms extended, fingers making a frame. “Aladdin! You’ve just won the hand of the Princess! What are you going to do next?”

“… If I knew, I’d tell you,” Aladdin allowed, and flopped onto the bed (probably the bed. It was a huge square cushion; if it wasn’t the bed, then he’d slept on a _really_ big footstool last night), face-first.

“Close,” Genie whispered, peering at some sort of soft book, “very close, but your line is, ‘I’m going to free the djinni.’ Any time.”

“Do we have to do this now?” Aladdin asked.

“No time like the present,” Genie offered.

“Tomorrow,” Aladdin pled. “Just let me get through this day-- _tomorrow,_ Genie--”

“And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. How many tomorrows are you gonna make me sit through, Al? _You won._ ”

“Did I?” Because this didn’t feel like victory.

“Uh, well, let’s see, defeated the evil sorcerer, won the hand of the Princess-- remember her, with the smart, the fun, the hair, the eyes? Inheriting the throne, gonna be the next Sultan… Al, if you were winning any harder, we’d have to replace you with Ashton Kutcher.”

Whatever that meant. “ _Hand_ of the Princess,” Aladdin pointed out. “Not heart. Just hand.”

“Look, I know these fourth-date marriages can be scary, but there’s a princess involved. That drastically ups your chances of a happily-ever-after. If we can work in rescuing her from a magical curse with true love’s kiss before the sun sets on her sixteenth birthday, we’re _golden._ ”

“Yeah? You don’t think we’d have to invite Mozenrath back for that? How do the bedtime stories end when there are two Princes?”

“… Depends, children’s library, or fanfiction-dot-net?”

“ _Genie._ ”

“Look-- Al. Aladdin. I swear, I promise, I _was_ listening last night. Just give her some time, okay? Yes, she loves Mozenrath. She might not be _in_ love with him. They’ve been friends for years, she had a problem that could be solved by marriage, he’s… got one heck of a bad master, and I know from bad masters. It’s only _natural_ that a couple of unhappy kids would wrap each other up in their escape fantasies. … And I know from escape fantasies, too. But Jasmine picked _you._ ”

Genie’s big hands settled on Aladdin’s shoulders. Aladdin bowed his head, not trying to shrug them away. “Not because she loves me. Not even because I’d make a better sultan than Mozenrath. She chose me because the other option is breaking the law. And…” Aladdin took a breath. “I understand. You know? I’m the right ‘prince’ in the right place at the right time, and I get to win a prize I don’t even want and have no idea how to handle, because I didn’t think about _why_ the Princess has to marry a Prince.”

“Al…” Genie pulled him into a hug, and Aladdin held on tight-- well, tight as he could, his arms wouldn’t go all the way around Genie. “Buddy, I just--”

“I know. You want your freedom so bad you can taste it.” So did Aladdin. He pulled away a little, looking up at Genie. “It’s just that I don’t know how much more I can _handle_ today. There’s all these… feasts and ceremonies and announcements where I have to be Prince Ali, and I have to look at Jasmine-- I have to _marry_ Jasmine-- knowing she’s wishing it could be somebody else up there with her, and… Genie…” Genie broke contact, getting his guard up again-- so Aladdin told the truth, or finished telling it: “If I have to pull off all that, I don’t think I can take saying goodbye to you today, too.”

“… Oh… aw-- Al--” And Genie had hold of his shoulders again. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you, kid.”

Aladdin offered him a solid try at a smile. “Survival tactic. … Think it’d work if used my third wish for everybody’s freedom? Yours, mine, Jasmine’s, Mozenrath’s?” At least it might make Aladdin feel less like a pawn. A guilty, cheating pawn.

“… I think that one’d need a team of lawyers to word it just right,” Genie decided. 

Jasmine’s voice floated through the door, sweetly. “Ali! Oh, Ali! Will you come here?”

But she knew his name was Aladdin… He glanced up at Genie, and realized they both had the same suspicious look on their faces. “… Oh. No, she couldn’t call me Aladdin if there’s anyone out there who can overhear.”

“Right, the secret identity. Hey, maybe you can fight crime by night, be a billionaire playboy philanthropist by day!” Both ideas were accompanied by costume changes, but Aladdin had no idea why he’d want to wear a dagged cape with a masked cowl or a weird black-and-white suit of clothes with strangely tight-looking pants.

“Shhh. Witnesses?” he reminded, then called back, “Princess Jasmine? Where are you?”

“Right,” Genie whispered. “I’ll just stay here and pretend to be an innocent oil lamp.” Into which he disappeared.

“Out in the menagerie,” Jasmine answered. “Hurry?” It didn’t sound too urgent-- probably important people, not an emergency.

“I’m coming!” he answered. Before he headed out, Aladdin tapped the handle of the lamp-- hopefully like knocking, not rubbing. “The sign’s too much.”

The little painted sign reading _Innocent Oil Lamp_ looped around the knob on the lid disappeared with a faint jingle.

As he passed by the reflecting pools, he didn’t notice one of the flamingoes was red rather than pink.

And on bamboo stilts.

And had an oversized, tied-on beak.

~*~

Above the palace gates, the Sultan introduced his future son-in-law, the fraud prince. From his tower workroom, Jafar couldn’t quite make out the speech-- but he could hear the throng cheering.

It soured Iago’s mood, but he did live for praise. “Look at them! Cheering that little… pipsqueak.”

“Let them cheer.” They meant nothing-- all they knew of Ali Ababwa was that he’d paraded through their midst yesterday. A flash of finery, a few coins tossed among them, and the rabble were bought, for a few days. Jafar had something much, _much_ better than a simple parade.

It ran on the same magic, though.

He had waited years for this moment-- all the research, all the dead-ends and useless maps, discovering the nature and then the location of the scarab halves, to say nothing of finding the thrice-bedamned _diamond in the rough_ \-- but all of it, every second, was worth it for the moment Jafar settled his palm against the curve of the djinni’s lamp and _rubbed._

He wasn’t prepared for the singing, belted out in a forced tenor, the djinni wearing some sort of head ornament that covered his ears, holding a sheaf of paper in his hands. “A thrilling chase, a wondrous place, for you and _meeeee_ da da da da _dah_ … Man, the deleted songs from this show are good. That’s like Oscar Bait good. The stuff that gets chucked for story edits…”

The strange tiara and papers disappeared as the djinni realized he was no longer in luxurious apartments fit for a prince, but a proper wizard’s lair. “… Al… did you redecorate?”

Jafar could wait. Let the clown have his fun.

It would end soon.

“This one’s on both of us, really,” the djinni said to no one in particular, drifting down toward Jafar and Iago. “Seriously. Shoulda kept it in the hat. I mean.” He held up a hand, a golden ball appearing in it.

Jafar noted that it was marked ‘idiota’ in Greek, whatever a citizen who didn’t vote had to do with anything.

“What can you do, the plot must go on. Hey, here, catch--” the djinni tossed the ball to Jafar-- he caught it, sparing only one hand, never dropping the lamp. The ball turned black as soon as he touched it, and ‘idiota’ shifted from Greek letters to proper Arabic-- reading simply ‘villain.’

Jafar dropped the foolish thing, grabbing the djinni by the beard, instead, throwing him to the ground-- it was perhaps easier than it should have been for a being of the djinni’s size. “Insolent wretch! _I_ am your master now!” He pressed his foot to the slave’s face, to drive home the point-- and show him what Jafar thought of nonsense and insults.

“You know, I was afraid of that,” the djinni admitted.

“Djinni,” he ordered, heart singing, “Grant me my first wish! I wish to rule on high, as sultan!”

“This is gonna be a long day,” the djinni sighed.

~*~

Djinnis had a little more wiggle-room in terms of granting wishes than of responding to a rub at the lamp. If the master hadn’t said ‘I wish,’ there was room to negotiate, and sometimes if all they’d gotten out was ‘I wish,’ the wish could be stopped or postponed. A particularly clever djinni-- or one who wasn’t worried about what High Chancellor Nasty-Pants would do to his mere-mortal friends, probably while Genie watched-- might have thought to make Jafar the Sultan of Swing, Swat, Samba, or Some Unimportant Rock Out In The Desert. A jerk of a djinni might even have thought to turn Jafar into a living constellation always visible over Agrabah _called_ The Sultan. Sure, djinnis couldn’t kill anyone, but really, you’d be surprised what you could live through.

But Genie wasn’t that big a jerk, and having seen what a particularly bad master could do, and having the sneaking suspicion that if he gummed up the first wish, Jafar’s second wish would be ‘bring Aladdin to me,’ Genie ran with the lesser of two evils.

It just so happened that the lesser of two evils included storm clouds, scooping up the palace in his arms while people screamed down below, and setting it up on a mountain, looking down on the city instead of out over it.

It also included stripping Sultan Ahmed to his skivvies and giving Jafar a big magical costume change, because… well, because he seemed like a ‘big magical costume change’ kind of guy.

He also looked kind of weird in soft white. Not his color. Jafar just didn’t pull off ‘white hat’ all that well. Or ‘lesser evil.’ 

Al jumped onto Carpet and begged Genie to stop-- which _sucked,_ because stopping? Stopping would have been really nice, but once the wish was wished, it _had_ to be granted. It was like trying to stop an avalanche, or an earthquake, or executive meddling.

Ahmed (not exactly ‘Sultan Ahmed’ now) ordered Jafar to stop, and Jafar just laughed. “Ah, but there’s a new order now-- _my_ order! Finally, _you_ will bow to _me!_ ”

Ahmed, smart guy that he was, made ready to bow.

Jasmine, spitfire that _she_ was, stepped in front of her father and made everything worse. “We will _never_ bow to you.” Brave kid.

Brave but stupid, at least in terms of not poking rattlesnakes.

“If you will not bow before a sultan,” Jafar declaimed and yes, he was declaiming. That was a textbook declamation, right there, “You will _cower_ before a _sorcerer!_ Djinni, my second wish! I wish to be the most powerful sorcerer _in the world!_ ”

… Yep. That’d do it. He couldn’t look. Had to grant, but couldn’t look.

“Genie, stop!” Genie was the size of a smallish kaiju, hands like king-sized mattresses, but Al still hopped onto his wrist and tried to steer his thumb.

Not that there was any way to stop it, steer it, or make it miss. Why, _why_ had Genie let Al leave the lamp anywhere but on him somewhere? Phenomenal cosmic power, not something to leave sitting on your nightstand unattended.

Why hadn’t he just promised Al he’d stick around for a while after Al set him free? He could have done that. ‘Free’ didn’t have to mean ‘immediate goodbye,’ no matter how much Genie wanted to see things he’d only heard about (or pretended to be)-- no matter how much he wanted things that would never happen, now.

As Jafar went through a pointy-turban paint-it-black makeover, complete with shiny new +1 magic staff, the parrot called for, “A warm Agrabah welcome for Sorcerer Jafar!”

Jafar finally finished laughing. “Now, where were we? Ah yes. Abject humiliation.”

A gesture of the staff had Jasmine and Ahmed unwillingly bowing, bodies forced into position, foreheads pressed against the floor. Rajah came running to his mistress’s rescue (good kitty!) but Jafar heard him coming and zapped him back to cub-hood.

… Which, honestly, was a lot less evil and a lot more adorable than Genie might’ve expected.

Jafar turned his attention back to Jasmine, creeping all over that poor girl with the same spell that still had her father stuck to the floor. “Oh Princess… there’s someone I’ve been dying to introduce you to.”

Al and Carpet headed straight for Jafar, and Al… oh, Al, Al, who was still clearly clutching the idiot ball, _yelled_ at the guy. “Jafar! Get your hands off her!”

The same ‘you move how I want’ magic that worked on Jasmine, predictably, worked on Aladdin, and Jafar twisted the background music into using its powers for evil, starting up an uncomfortably compelling reprise of the little number Genie had put together for Al’s big parade.

But he seemed to be working from an earlier draft of the script-- Jasmine wasn’t surprised to learn the whole ‘merely Aladdin’ deal, and if Al was embarrassed to be back in the vest-and-fez combo, well, hey, Ahmed was in his skivvies. Genie suspected Jafar would whip up a gold bikini and a leash for Jasmine any second, honestly.

Luckily Jafar was still getting the fear he wanted, enough of it that he didn’t mind the lack of shock and dismay (Captain Costume Change did _not_ seem like the kind of guy who’d take being interrupted during his big villain solo number all that well) and cheerfully zapped Abu from elephant back into monkey, twirled Aladdin through the air like a Cirque du Soleil act-- and then all of a sudden got serious, slapping Aladdin and Abu in a tower and setting the tower off like a rocket-- “The ends of the Earth!” Jafar crowed, and Genie… didn’t want to think about it. He spared a quick burst of optimism to hope Carpet tagging along at the last second might keep the kid and the monkey alive, but…

This?

This was what happened when you started thinking you had a really good master. The closest thing to a bright side was that the most powerful sorcerer in the world only had one wish left.

And that was less of a bright side than a shoe waiting to drop.

~*~

Mozenrath had collected Xerxes and left for home before midnight, told Destane it was done, and once dismissed, staggered off to bed, to sleep on his chest.

Or try to sleep.

_Jafar._ Of all the dangers he might have imagined rearing up against Jasmine, of all the miserable, murder-able, hypothetical husbands who might have slithered their way onto Agrabah’s throne… On the one hand, of course it was the vizier; he was close to the throne, legally untouchable, wielded the Sultan’s power as if it were his own, and Jasmine had never actually liked him. On the other hand, whenever Jasmine _complained_ about him, she’d always admitted he was good at his job, and a necessary friend to her father.

By the time Mozenrath had to leave Agrabah, they still hadn’t found the man. Or his parrot-- Jasmine, at least, knew that the parrot couldn’t be underestimated.

Aladdin still had one wish left, for all he’d said it was already earmarked. If he were smart, he’d turn the lamp over to Jasmine in case of an emergency, giving her three wishes-- enough to fix anything.

He hated having to trust someone else, even if he owed Aladdin for saving Jasmine’s hand, possibly her life, in the marketplace. He hated having to not only concede Jasmine’s hand, but step away, likely for months, with Jafar on the loose; he was a sorcerer of unknown (probably middling, but _unknown_ ) power, and Agrabah no longer produced magic users of its own the way it had in centuries past. And what did they have do defend against the sorcerer who, before sunset, had been the second most powerful man in Agrabah?

City guards, a flying carpet, and an admittedly remarkable street rat down to one djinni’s wish.

And Mozenrath, in his condition, with Destane so furious at him as to resort to a whip, couldn’t do anything but scry, secretly checking in when he could.

Despite Xerxes fussing over him and the fascinatingly assorted pain in his back (the cuts stung. The bruising, which would be spectacular when it started to change color, throbbed. None of it appreciated him moving in the least), Mozenrath did eventually sleep. It was fitful, and full of dreams where things kept being _taken_ from him because he wasn’t strong enough to hold onto them.

He woke late, used magic to both clean his bandages and to dress, and carefully set out to find Destane.

“A slow start today, my boy,” was Destane’s greeting. “It’s past noon. But then, you did have such a full day yesterday.”

But he had a plan for this. “A lot of work wasted,” Mozenrath agreed. “I know my little project upset you, but, Master, what I can’t understand is _why_ it upset you.”

Destane drew himself to his full height, standing dangerously close to Mozenrath. “… Oh, can’t you?”

“I would have been heir to the throne of Agrabah. We would have had a perfectly good reason to conquer everything between that kingdom and our own, consolidating it, and from there it’s only a short journey to Paramoor and the sea. Within a few short years, the entire Seven Deserts could be united under a single banner.” Something Mozenrath knew full well Destane didn’t care about in the slightest-- but it was a more than plausible motive for Mozenrath.

Ruling more than a kingdom of the dead fascinated him.

Destane regarded him, wry and almost humorless. “I suppose the fact that the girl was quite pretty didn’t factor into your plans at all?”

Mozenrath shrugged-- then winced, and the way Destane’s shoulders relaxed was worth it. “I considered it a bonus.” And it had never been Jasmine’s beauty that had made her fascinating. Lovely, plain, or ugly, Jasmine had a mind like a keen blade, and Mozenrath was beyond disappointed that he’d never get to find out what the two of them could accomplish together. 

“You _are_ young yet,” Destane mused. “I suppose I should have given you leave to explore certain aspects of youth some time ago. But let me give you some advice, my boy, on choosing a mistress-- and let that advice double as the reason-- the non-conquest reason, you _know_ I don’t favor expansion the way you do, it’s an invitation to mage-war-- I pulled you out of Agrabah.

“Whether or not you can seduce a princess, try to stick to attractive commoners. The particular princess you wanted to claim was a part of another sorcerer’s plan for Agrabah-- that’s just poor manners, my boy. We don’t know who this Jafar’s allies are.”

“Jafar’s plans are dust,” Mozenrath pointed out. “He tried to have Prince Ali murdered last night, but was caught, and dismissed from his post. When I left, he was on the loose, but if he didn’t flee the city that might not last long.”

“Odd. I decided to keep an eye on things in Agrabah-- a day’s diversion, certainly _you’ll_ be of no use for a while-- and he seemed to be doing well enough as of an hour ago.” Destane sketched a rough oval in the air, lined in his signature green smoke, forming a simple window onto Agrabah’s palace.

Or the hole where it was supposed to be. “… Ah yes. Inertia.” A little gesture changed the angle of the image, and Mozenrath had to hope if he’d paled at seeing the palace gone or relaxed at seeing it simply moved to the ridge above Agrabah, Destane would mistake it for his injuries playing up.

That was the point of the injuries, after all-- a reminder that it wasn’t necessarily better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

“… I wonder how he managed that,” Mozenrath mused, his face as calm a mask as he could make it. The palace had been lifted, like a child’s plaything set on a shelf. Was Jasmine all right? Had the boy protected her? How had Jafar _done_ it? “If Jafar had power like that last night, he would have used it long before now.” Had he sacrificed Jasmine to something for power? It almost looked as though there were finger-marks at the very edges of the palace wall.

Mozenrath leaned forward to get a better look at that-- and yes. Yes, it truly did look as though something had grabbed hold of the palace like a massive loaf of bread and just… picked it up and set it down. Although there were only three marks, not four…

… And when Aladdin’s djinni had taken on the disconcerting form of an old matron to play at being a chaperone, ‘her’ hands had only three fingers and a thumb.

Jafar had the lamp.

Jafar had the _lamp,_ he had _Jasmine,_ and it was safe to say he had the palace if not the whole city.

Jafar, who had stayed subtle and patient for years, now had three wishes of nearly unlimited scope and power.

‘Leaning forward’ turned to ‘pitching forward’ until Destane caught him around the chest-- one hand against his back, making Mozenrath grunt in pain and surprise. “ _What_ is wrong with you, boy?” he demanded, shifting Mozenrath upright again-- the image of Agrabah disappearing into smoke. “The girl can’t have meant anything much to you.”

Did she even live? _If_ she lived, what was Jafar _doing_ to her? How long did she have? Mozenrath tried to pretend wooziness. “I--”

It was enough. “… Are you ill? How much magic did you work last night trying to hide your stripes? One day you’ll exhaust yourself completely-- magic is a tool to be used when necessary, not leaned on for every little thing, you know that.” The back of Destane’s hand went to Mozenrath’s forehead, which was anything but flushed. “You’re cold as clay, Mozenrath. Go back to your chambers-- preferably your bed, and well-covered. I’ll send a Mamluk with something warm to drink shortly.”

“Yes, Master,” Mozenrath lied. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t bow.”

“Go, now. Twenty years old and no idea how to take care of himself,” Destane muttered, throwing his hands in the air as Mozenrath staggered from the study. “I swear by all the powers, youth is wasted on the young.”

Mozenrath ordered the first Mamluk he saw to help him back to his rooms, though he didn’t need it as much as he pretended he did while there was still a chance Destane could see them, then collected Xerxes. “We have an errand to run, you and I. But first.” It would tire him more, but it was a necessary risk-- it would buy time. A few sub-vocalized Words, a Gesture, and the Mamluk now resembled Mozenrath in every detail-- except that it couldn’t open its mouth. “Get into the bed, laying on your stomach. Pretend to both breathe and sleep until I come back and tell you otherwise.”

It wouldn’t work forever, and it wouldn’t even work for long-- the Mamluks obeyed Destane first and Mozenrath second, Xerxes a distant third. The magic that made them was intimately tied to the Land of the Black Sand, and they recognized the Land’s ruler. If Destane tried to wake Mozenrath, it would be the work of seconds to discover the decoy.

On the other hand, if Mozenrath survived the end of the day, he might return to absolve this Mamluk of his duty as its new absolute master.

With the decoy in place, snug as an undead monstrosity, Mozenrath beckoned to Xerxes to follow. “Mozenrath in trouble?”

“Jasmine’s in trouble.” If Jafar hadn’t killed her. “We’re going to go help her. But I need… much more than I have.” He needed power, raw power-- and he needed a _lot_ of it.

Luckily, Mozenrath knew just where to find some.

~*~

The end of the Earth was _cold,_ and Aladdin knew he had to find Abu and get them out of there, fast.

… Somehow.

He wasn’t even completely sure how he’d survived the tower hitting the snow-- magic was a pretty good guess. Jafar probably wanted him to die just slowly enough to believe he couldn’t escape.

But Abu’s hat blew past him on the freezing wind, and Aladdin shoved himself up off his knees to look for his friend-- buried in the snow, somehow. “I’m sorry, Abu--” but at least he was alive, even if Aladdin didn’t think tucking Abu inside his vest would really keep either of them all that much warmer, “I made a mess of everything. Somehow, I gotta go back and set things right.”

Stop Jafar, rescue Jasmine and the Sultan, save Agrabah, apologize to the Sultan for lying, free Genie, in no particular order-- but ‘stop Jafar’ was pretty high up the list.

Right after ‘avoid dying in the snow.’ Aladdin trudged along the side of the tower, using it as a windbreak while he could, regretting that his feet weren’t quite numb yet-- then he stepped on something stiff, something that levered upward instead of compacting. 

Something rectangular.

“Carpet!” Trapped under the tower, of course, but he was _there_ \-- and if they could get him free, they could get _home._ (Maybe. If they didn’t freeze on their way out.) Just pulling at Carpet didn’t free him-- though it shook some of the ice out of him. “Abu, start digging!” If they could clear away just enough snow that Carpet could get loose…

Aladdin heard a faint crunching sound, even over the wind and their efforts.

The tower, like all of the palace’s towers, was round, and they were on a snowy slope that rolled gently down to a cliff edge.

Apparently they’d dislodged just enough snow for the massive marble tower to start rolling gently _down_ the slope, just fast enough to be inescapable.

If Aladdin had been thinking clearly, he would’ve run for one end of the tower or the other, rather than darting straight away, toward the cliff. He might have made it, or might not-- but he wouldn’t have spotted the window. He wouldn’t have run, have curled up as small as he could in what he thought, hoped, prayed was the right spot-- a mistake could cost him his feet, his head, his monkey.

But Aladdin didn’t have the time to think clearly, only to calculate, to run back toward the approaching tower, to huddle up in a tiny bundle-- and by the grace of what Aladdin had to acknowledge, even in that brief moment, as _crazy stupid luck,_ he and Abu were fine.

Well, he was fine, and Abu would probably have a few choice words for him if he could speak human languages, but he wasn’t hurt. Carpet was fine, too, despite the tower rolling over him, shaking the last of the snow away and gliding over to Aladdin. He leapt on immediately.

“Let’s go!”

He had a stop to make before they headed back to Agrabah.

~*~

For an adventurer, getting through Destane’s citadel would have been a challenging exercise in avoiding death. Reaching his treasury would have been nearly impossible-- likely something Destane would have to choose to allow, as part of springing a final trap. Not only was there gold, plenty of traditional non-magical riches that kept them in bread and meat and boots, there were hundreds of magical artifacts in the room, some collected to use, others collected simply so potential rivals couldn’t find them first. Enough of them could be set off at a distance to destroy a thief-- or to simply turn them into something amusing.

But Mozenrath was no adventurer, no thief, no raiding party out to retrieve a specific item and slip out again.

Mozenrath was Destane’s apprentice and heir, and everything in the Citadel obeyed him as it would his master-- unless his master was present Mozenrath’s orders contradicted Destane’s.

He knew where to find the correct key. Nothing stopped him from reaching the little iron chest, or from opening it. Brushing aside the rock salt and unwrapping the silk was the work of a moment.

Still, he hesitated as he took up the gauntlet.

A vast increase in power and a matching increase in control, but it took a price Destane had never clarified, and the gauntlet’s wearers never lived more than a handful of years after first claiming it.

Raw power that he didn’t know would be enough to defeat a djinni’s magic (how many wishes had Jafar used?), for an unknown price and a shortening of his life… for the chance, just the chance, to save Jasmine. 

Worth it-- if Jasmine still lived.

If she were dead…

… No, it would still be worth it-- but not today. It would be worth it later, when his back healed, when he was stronger-- he’d bank his revenge only long enough to make sure he was utterly _unstoppable_ when he went to destroy Jafar, if Jasmine were dead.

The floor was polished stone; it was reflective enough. (He could have used the air, but it was easier and _faster_ on a mirror or the surface of water.) Mozenrath had burned the hairs Jasmine had given him years ago-- he knew her too well to need them anymore, and it had stopped being worth even the infinitesimal risk that Destane might find them. It had grown so simple to hold the thought of her in his mind, foremost in his heart-- _Jasmine, **Jasmine,** show me Jasmine_ \-- as he traced an oval of blue flame out on the floor. 

As the image took shape, Mozenrath failed to recognize where Jasmine was for a long moment. Everything was bathed in gold and red, heaps of coins filling the room-- the treasury? It wasn’t until he saw Jafar, in an eccentrically-wrapped turban, lounging on a massive cobra-shaped golden throne that he realized it was _still Agrabah,_ the throne room of the palace. Jafar had just… remodeled.

In a cobra motif.

Jasmine was in chains at Jafar’s feet, in a pale purple dress she wore only on formal occasions. In that room, she stood out like an orchid against a wildfire.

Jafar murmured something about there being no rescue for her-- “Your dashing little street rat is dead, and the sorcerer’s apprentice? Whatever interest he might have in you has been brought to heel. You are _mine,_ Jasmine-- you, and your father, and your dear little pet live on _my_ sufferance, for exactly as long as I find you amusing. And,” he continued, smiling and oily, “I’m quite certain I’d find your pleas for your father’s life _terribly_ amusing. Are we quite clear?”

“As crystal,” Jasmine agreed, her pride as swallowed as it could be. She hadn’t knelt or bowed her head, but she kept her eyes lowered.

Jafar touched his staff to her chin, tipping her face upward. “Excellent.”

Mozenrath jolted forward as Jafar blasted Jasmine with magic-- as though he could reach through and save her, somehow-- but all it did was knock her backward into a heap of coins…

… And alter her clothes.

The bottom half was much like what she wore every day, but Mozenrath had no idea how a choli _that_ brief could stay up. Both garments were red as cool fire. Her hair was swept upward, exposing her back, and none of her jewelry was familiar to Mozenrath-- but the lack of a necklace, and of any sort of sleeves, made her seem alarmingly bare.

Jasmine looked exposed and vulnerable. Worse than that, she looked afraid.

“ _Much_ better,” Jafar told her-- and Mozenrath ended the spell. Whatever happened next, he didn’t need to see it. He needed to claim the gauntlet and _stop_ it.

“Princess in trouble,” Xerxes concluded, nervously.

“We’re going to go fix that,” Mozenrath informed him, shaking out the gauntlet and settling his right arm into it. Simply slipping it on felt… like wearing a leather glove. He could sense the gauntlet’s pent-up power, but it wasn’t yet _his._ How to claim it? How to use it? Mozenrath conjured a simple flame and-- 

Oh.

_Oh._

Instantly, he could feel what he needed to do, like a map with the right path picked out in light instead of ink-- gather his magic and channel it through the gauntlet, not simply _wear_ the thing. Let it know him, let it taste his own power, and then it would be his.

So he gestured to bring up a second flame, intending to scale down its size-- but this one turned into a fireball, sending Xerxes scrambling for cover, and Mozenrath crowed with triumph. Power _flooded_ him, power and the skill to use it, the gauntlet now _his_ gauntlet, a part of him, and _nothing,_ now, could stand in his way.

Then the pain started, a tender sting at first, barely noticeable under the dizzying power-- and the aches and twinges from his back. It deepened, suddenly, into something that penetrated his flesh, burning like acid, and Mozenrath tried to pull the gauntlet free, to stop it.

It refused to budge, leaving him feeling as though he were trying to tear his own flesh away from the bone-- was this why its wearers rarely took it off? Did it bind itself to their skin? Mozenrath had a brief moment of panic over what that meant for his sleeve, caught between leather and skin-- would he die mad with fever in a few weeks, or lose the ability to use the gauntlet along with a gangrenous arm?

The gauntlet began to glow, red and eldritch, not the blue-black of Mozenrath’s own magic. He could _feel_ it, his flesh torn apart, muscle by muscle, magic separating flesh and tendon and vein like the tiniest of blades, even if the surface of the glove was undisturbed by motion or blood. The fingertips were the worst, the shearing so much brighter there, sharper, as though it were happening on a finer scale to the more sensitive parts of his skin. His inner wrist felt flayed, the back of his hand scoured, the skin between his fingers scraped and eaten away.

Mozenrath began to scream when he felt his fingernails split, cracking apart under the onslaught.

He had a vague impression of falling to his knees, he thought he heard Xerxes calling his name but by then, everything was graying out.

Mercifully, the gray went black.

~*~

The Land of the Black Sand was further north than Agrabah, technically on their way back from the ends of the earth, and Aladdin decided not to think too hard about why neither he nor Abu had died from the cold, or why it didn’t seem as cold as it should’ve been while riding Carpet, or how _fast_ Carpet made the journey.

He was a magic carpet. Aladdin was willing to take their survival on faith.

The Land of the Black Sand was also not at all hard to spot from the air, and was aptly named-- tendrils of almost glittering black sand threaded into the warm golden sand of the surrounding desert, and grew into a solid inky mass the closer to the center of the kingdom they got. The palace, smaller than Agrabah’s own, sat on a cliff at the edge of the city, overlooking a field of canyons and caverns full of wicked-looking rocks.

The sky was darkly cloudy, and everything looked blue and gray and dead as a corpse.

“Up ahead,” Aladdin urged Carpet-- quietly. “They’ll be in the palace.” Call it a test run for slipping into Agrabah’s palace undetected-- all they needed was a window.

Jafar had wished to be the most powerful sorcerer in the world, and Aladdin only knew one other sorcerer who might be willing to help him.

~*~

Mozenrath woke with a start as someone kicked him over from where he lay curled around his right arm to land flat on his striped back. He struggled to think, to breathe, and finally realized Destane was standing over him, glaring down at him, _beyond_ displeased.

“You _idiot_ boy. Do you have any idea what you’ve _done_ to yourself?”

Mozenrath could only answer with a blast of pure magic-- blue light, no flame at all-- before scrabbling to push himself to his feet. No-- no, he didn’t know, he only knew what he needed to do, and Destane would _not_ stand in his way-- not ever again. “Xerxes!”

Xerxes rushed out of hiding, unarmed, swimming around Mozenrath’s shoulders-- hissing at Destane as he stood, slow and stiff. “Take it off, Mozenrath, before it drives you mad.”

“Madness isn’t on the list of side effects,” Mozenrath said, drawing power, drawing _magic,_ to swirl around him like a cloak. His flames were blacker than they’d ever been before. “My apprenticeship here is done.” He’d give up his claim to Destane’s throne if he had to, he’d see Destane dead if it came to that-- but he wouldn’t give up. He had to get to Jasmine-- Mozenrath was not allowed to die before getting her away from Jafar, at the very least.

“Because you’ve cheated the last exam? _No._ ” Destane aimed a spell at Mozenrath, and he had enough time to feel out which one it was-- one he _loathed,_ the sensation but not the reality of the body rapidly aging and dying-- before burning it away, blasting flames against Destane.

Destane shielded. 

“You won’t stop me!” Mozenrath swore, refusing to take turns or play by rules-- the fire was _easy,_ it had always been part of him, but now there was so much more to draw on!

“I won’t have to!” Destane screamed from behind faltering shields. “The gauntlet has already killed you, you just haven’t fallen down yet! Mamluks!”

They ringed the room and Mozenrath cursed himself for not noticing them before.

Of course, they brought swords to a wizards’ duel. They were nothing against him, not now. Bolts of magic rendered one after the other to heaps of limbs, collapsed at the seams.

Destane caught him in the back with a simple undifferentiated blast of magic, but it was enough to make Mozenrath cry out and knock him to all fours-- bleating in pain again when his gauntleted hand hit the floor.

~*~

They were barely inside the palace-- more of a fortress, really-- when Aladdin heard a shout of pain. “That sounded like Mozenrath,” he murmured. “This way-- hurry!”

~*~

“Take it off,” Destane ordered Mozenrath, moving closer with the remaining Mamluks. “Take it off, and we’ll see if there’s any chance to save your foolish life.”

“I won’t,” but it was a groan. He had power, yes, enough that it boiled inside him-- but every time he stopped for even a moment, all he could feel was pain.

Distracting pain.

Destane grabbed at the gauntlet, and it felt like fire arced over Mozenrath’s arm-- making him cry out again, but this time?

The cry accompanied a blast, knocking Destane back far enough for Xerxes to dart in and attack in whatever small ways he could-- a bite here, a tear there, moving too quickly for Destane’s reflexes to keep up with.

But that still left Mozenrath with a handful of Mamluks to fight, from the ground.

He managed to kick the legs out from under one raising its sword, rolling away even though it made his back scream in protest, but had trouble scrambling to his feet until two of the Mamluks grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him upright. “Hold him!” Destane demanded, cursing at Xerxes, trying to swat him away.

It would have been easier to shake the Mamluks off if they hadn’t interpreted ‘hold him’ as ‘hold him by the outstretched arms so I can blast him.’ It was a reasonable enough assumption, but with one pair of undead hands holding fast at the wrist of the gauntlet, Mozenrath couldn’t help another pained cry as his vision went gray for half a moment.

“Hold on!” shouted what Mozenrath would have thought was a hallucination, if that hallucination hadn’t just lopped the arms off the Mamluk holding his right arm captive.

The Mamluk’s hands loosened enough for Mozenrath to blast it, sending it bowling into a sturdy chest as its hands fell loose. He whirled on the other Mamluk-- its turban pulled over its eyes by a _monkey,_ where had the monkey come from?-- shouting, “What are you _doing_ here?” at Aladdin-- Aladdin, on that flying carpet, Aladdin, _alive_ even though Jafar had claimed he was dead! How many things could an open-ended wish for a rescue grant someone? Still he blasted the Mamluk, giving the monkey enough time to leap clear.

“Saving you!”

“ _Jasmine’s_ in trouble, not me!”

“… Seriously?” The deadpan question was just enough distraction for a Mamluk to grab the flying carpet, sending Aladdin falling-- but not sprawling, he rolled and came up with his sword held high and his back to Mozenrath’s.

One with his sword at the ready, the other with magic blazing. Yes. This could work.

Destane finally managed to fling Xerxes away, his robes the worse for wear. “Is this _still_ about the _girl?_ ” he demanded, exasperated, while the flying carpet wrapped around a Mamluk’s head, blinding it. “You’re both _fools!_ ” Green light blasted towards them, but Mozenrath raised a shield at the last moment, covering both of them with opaque blue fire.

“Is that Destane?” Aladdin asked.

Mozenrath nodded, holding the shield while Destane kept the magic pouring-- maybe Destane would exhaust himself. “Listen-- Jasmine needs help, you have to go back to Agrabah--”

“I’ll need your help with Jafar,” so that was why he’d come. 

But Mozenrath was having sorcerer problems of his own. “Destane has to fall.”

Aladdin set his jaw and nodded. “You go left, I’ll go right, whoever gets there first? On three?”

Mozenrath raised his left hand and held up fingers.

One.

Two.

Three, and he let the shield collapse, lunging to the left as Aladdin darted to the right, both of them running for Destane-- but Destane was focused on Mozenrath, instead of the street rat with the sword. The burst of magic sent Mozenrath to his knees again, but by the time Destane turned to handle Aladdin, it was far too late.

Mamluks were shambling, half-dead things, their clothing tattered, their skin held together with magic and thread-- but Mozenrath had suspected for a long time that they might have been a standing army long before they were a shambling army; their clothing was uniform and they all did keep their swords very sharp.

It should probably have been Mozenrath who ran Destane through, who pinned him to a wooden column like an insect specimen. It would have been right, usurping him completely, but Mozenrath was panting on the floor while Aladdin held the sword in place, speared through Destane’s chest.

“Name,” Destane managed. “Who… has killed me?”

“Don’t--” too many things a necromancer, even a dying one, could do with a name--

“Aladdin.” Too late.

But Destane said no arcane words, made no gestures-- only smiled, and said, “I knew it,” and was silent.

“… That was creepy,” Aladdin decided, but reached out to close Destane’s eyes-- cautiously.

Mozenrath shoved himself to his feet. “Mamluks!” he called. “Destane is dead. As his heir, I am now Lord of the Land of the Black Sand, and I am your master now. Reassemble any who were damaged in the fight. I have an errand to run and will return soon.”

“Carpet!” Aladdin beckoned, as the Mamluks moved to obey Mozenrath’s orders. 

The rug unwound from his victim, and the monkey reappeared-- as did Xerxes. “Mozenrath win!” 

“Only round one,” he said, shaking his head-- then swaying, caught on one side by Aladdin and the other by the carpet.

“Are you sure you’re ready for round two?” Aladdin asked.

“I have to be.” For Jasmine.

“You can barely stand.”

“But I can still cast.”

Aladdin considered for a heartbeat or two, then nodded. “Stick with Carpet, if you can. He’ll keep you moving. Carpet?” Aladdin shifted Mozenrath, taking more of his weight, and the carpet-- or, Carpet, Aladdin kept using it as a proper name-- laid out flat, a step above the ground. Aladdin kept Mozenrath steady as he climbed on, then settled himself ahead of Mozenrath. The monkey scampered onto Aladdin’s shoulders, and Xerxes followed his example by wrapping around Mozenrath’s.

“Tell me you at least have a plan,” Mozenrath asked, holding tight to the edge of the carpet as they took off-- flying through the halls far faster than he could run. Faster than Xerxes could fly, he’d bet.

“Not exactly. More like goals. And I know what Jafar’s first two wishes were.”

“… He’s down to his last one?” Maybe he could be convinced to waste it.

“He’s Sultan of Agrabah, and the most powerful sorcerer in the world,” Aladdin cautioned. “Sent me and Abu to the ends of the earth under his own power-- and I figured we could swing by here on our way back.”

Mozenrath’s right arm still pained him, throbbing in time with his heart. He looked down at it for a long moment. “How long ago?”

“What?” The carpet took them through a high window, but Mozenrath fixed Aladdin with a stare.

“How long ago did Jafar wish to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world?”

“Uh. Four--” One corner of the carpet folded up, tapped Aladdin’s hand, and waved. “Five?” Aladdin offered, and the carpet’s tassel imitated a hand, gesturing that yes, five was right, and Mozenrath began to see why Aladdin used ‘Carpet’ as a name. “About five hours ago.”

It was next to impossible to tell time by the sun in the perpetually-overcast Land of the Black Sand, but Mozenrath had lived there for as long as he could remember, and could generally guess by the quality of the light. It hadn’t been more than an hour, and probably much less, since he’d claimed the gauntlet. The gauntlet granted power, and he might have been willing to wager that he, wearing the gauntlet, was the most powerful sorcerer in the Seven Deserts, but Mozenrath had no idea how he stacked up to the most powerful sorcerers in the world. 

On top of that, as Aladdin had said, he could barely stand. Still, there were two of them, and Jafar hadn’t appeared to have surrounded himself with guards-- Jasmine and her father would be on their side, and the first person to get their hands on the lamp would win.

“It might be enough.”

~*~

Jafar had turned Agrabah, at least on a surface level, into something dark and terrible.

Jasmine had seen stormclouds before, and they had always rolled in gray, or black-- rarely they looked bluish. The clouds that filled Jafar’s skies were red, flickering with lightning but no rain.

The throne room had been transformed, as well-- from the throne itself to the hue of the marble to the fact that what _had_ been an audience chamber big enough for hundreds was now filled with whatever treasures Jafar and Iago had decided would be most amusing. Gold coins were piled halfway to the distant ceiling in places, and there were rubies scattered around that ranged from the size of her head to the size of her _father._

And when Jafar insisted they take a break from obscene wealth, Iago decided to amuse himself with her father-- Jafar had changed _his_ clothes, too, again to amuse Iago. Dressed as some sort of clown, her father dangled on unbreakable strings from a paddle that floated above his head, bouncing him around like a child’s toy… while Iago shoveled crackers down his throat.

“Puppet ruler wanna cracker?” Suddenly Jasmine, chained to flank Jafar’s new throne opposite Genie, no longer felt so bad for Iago’s treatment at her father’s hands all these years. “ _Here!_ Have a whole _bunch_ of crackers! Shove ’em all the way down your throat!”

“Stop it!” she cried, hoping she wouldn’t _weep,_ as well, but Jasmine couldn’t hold it in any longer. She’d act as a servant as long as Jafar demanded it, she even understood that this was revenge on them for… apparently, years of gainful employment, but still. “Jafar, leave him alone!”

She let herself beg, hoping it would work better than demanding.

Jafar held up a hand, and Iago thrust one more fistful of crackers into her father’s mouth before flapping off to lounge on a silk cushion next to a fruit bowl of his own, full of an assortment much like the spread on Jasmine’s tray.

But the tray disappeared, leaving Jasmine holding one single red apple. She had barely a breath to stare at it in confusion before Jafar hooked her chains around his staff, hauling her… far too close to him. “It _pains_ me to see you reduced to this, Jasmine,” he informed her, as though he weren’t directly responsible for it. She struggled to put some distance between them as Jafar leaned forward to take a bite out of the apple she hadn’t managed to drop. “A beautiful desert bloom such as yourself should be on the arm of the most powerful man in the world.” 

Jasmine was so annoyed and disgusted at the flecks of half-chewed fruit spattering her cheek that she almost missed the moment her chains disappeared-- Jafar turned them into a mirror-bright golden tiara, offering it to her.

She dropped the apple.

“What do you say, my dear?” he offered, eyes locked on Jasmine’s. She groped for something, anything she could use as a weapon. “Why, with you as my queen…”

Her fingers closed around the stem of a very fine glass goblet.

It would do.

The first assault was just the wine. “ _Never._ ”

Jafar nearly vaulted over the arm of his throne, hand upraised as Jasmine stumbled backward, crashing to the floor along with an urn full of rolls of the finest fabrics Jafar had cared to conjure-- “I’ll teach you some respect!”

But then something in his demeanor changed, the fury banking into cruelty. “… No. Genie.”

Genie, sitting on the edge of the dais, flinched at the sound of his name.

“I have decided to make my final wish,” Jafar announced, and all Jasmine could do was stare up at Jafar. What could he want for her, from her, that his own magic couldn’t do? “I wish for Princess Jasmine to fall _desperately_ in love with me.”

… No…

But Genie came to her defense, or tried to. “Ah, Master,” he began, “there are a few addendas, some quid pro quos--” and that was right, Aladdin had said there were things djinnis couldn’t do-- making someone fall in love had topped the list.

Jafar would hear none of it, jerking the Genie down by his beard-- “Don’t talk back to me, you big blue lout!”

With Genie bent forward, Jasmine had a clear view of one of the highest windows in the throne room-- one Aladdin-- _Aladdin,_ alive!-- had just stepped through, Mozenrath right behind him on Aladdin’s magic carpet.

Four of them-- _four_ of them, Aladdin, Mozenrath, Abu, and Xerxes, all alive and safe-- saw that she saw them and shushed her. She nodded, and thought, desperately. They needed the lamp. All they needed was for someone to get to the lamp and-- then she wasn’t sure, wish Jafar’s wishes undone, or something-- but the lamp was in Jafar’s hands, and they were so far away.

They needed time.

“ _You,_ ” Jafar bellowed at the Genie, “will do as _I_ order you to do, _slave!_ ”

… Well, Jasmine could make him think that third wish had worked. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

“Jafar,” she said, as warmly as she could manage. When she had Jafar’s attention-- and Genie’s, too-- she stood, smiling, a wisp of sheer blue silk sliding from her shoulder to the floor. “I never realized how… incredibly handsome you are.”

She settled the tiara into place.

Jafar and Genie stared for a long moment, Genie’s jaw dropping-- halfway down his chest, but Jasmine kept her eyes on Jafar.

“… That’s better,” he decided, and she wouldn’t stare at whatever had just happened to Genie’s chin. No, instead she’d note that Jafar set the lamp down on the arm of the throne-- out in the open. “Now. Pussycat,” he said, stepping closer to Jasmine, “Tell me more about… myself.”

Of course. 

“You’re… tall,” she said, warm and low, breathlessly, “dark…”

“Yes…” Jafar prompted, fascinated.

“Well-dressed…” She could keep Jafar’s attention on her for a _long_ time if that was the most he wanted-- they’d only have to get past Iago. “And I love those…” She bit her lip, trying to make hesitation look like flustered eagerness.

~*~

Genie stared at his finger.

Well, it was that or stare at To Catch A Predator, Agrabah Edition, and _nope._

Had he _done_ that? Making people fall in love wasn’t like bringing people back from the dead-- technically he _could_ raise the dead, but the results were _not_ pretty and never, ever what the master doing the wishing wanted. But love?

Love was complicated, chemical, emotional, mental, there were just too many variables-- it was different for every two people, and djinni magic couldn’t actually keep up with it. _No_ magic could really do love _right._ Creepy stalker stuff or brainwashed Stepford stuff or flat out lust, sure…

But Genie looked up from his contemplation of his finger to see-- “Al!” Aladdin, hale and hearty, sliding down the curtains with Abu clinging to his vest, like an almost-fully-clothed Tarzan and Cheetah. “Al, little buddy!”

“Shh!” Aladdin hissed, and Genie zipped his lip and dashed over to Al’s side.

Behind him, Jasmine purred something about “eyebrows! They’re so… angry.”

Genie unzipped. “Al, I can’t help you. I work for Señor Psychopath now,” he reminded. “What’re you gonna _do?_ ”

“We’ll improvise,” Al promised.

“We? Who’s we?”

But Aladdin zipped Genie’s lip back up again and was off.

~*~

“I _adore_ your… cute little gaps between your teeth,” Jasmine told Jafar, as Aladdin made his way over a mountain of actually really tempting gold coins.

“Go on,” Jafar urged.

The lamp was right there on the edge of the throne-- all he had to do was grab it while Jafar’s back was turned. He crept across the floor, knowing Abu would take care of Iago, with backup from Xerxes if he needed it.

“And your beard,” Jasmine enthused, hands sliding over Jafar‘s shoulders-- one hand beckoning to Aladdin, “is _so… twisted._ You’ve stolen my heart.”

There was the faintest ruckus behind Aladdin-- Abu had Iago, which meant he was free to run the rest of the distance to the throne. 

“And… the street rat?” Jafar prompted.

It was absolutely hysterical, the things Jafar didn’t know.

“What street rat?”

Aladdin reached for the lamp, feeling like he was in the Cave of Wonders all over again-- one wrong move and everything would explode.

Before his fingers could brush against the lamp, there was a clang behind him-- Iago and Abu had knocked over a fruit bowl. Aladdin snatched his hand away, but before he could duck back behind the throne, Jasmine-- Jasmine thought faster than any of them.

She kissed Jafar.

~*~

_Delicious_ creature, Jasmine-- _his_ Jasmine, now, all her willfulness transformed instead into a delightful, desperate wantonness.

All for him.

“That was…” He opened his eyes to look down at the woman who would very soon be his queen.

Her crown, unfortunately, held an unwanted jewel-- the street rat’s reflection. Jafar whirled around, raging, “ _You!_ ”

~*~

“How many times do I have to kill you, boy!”

From Mozenrath’s point of view, circling high above the throne room with Carpet, everything started to happen at once.

Jafar blasted Aladdin away from the lamp, Jasmine tried to tear Jafar’s staff away from him, but was tossed aside, Aladdin shouted at her to get the lamp and tackled Jafar himself. 

“Lower,” Mozenrath urged Carpet-- blasting at one of the mounds of coins, sending a controlled avalanche between Jasmine, nearly to the lamp, and Jafar, grappling with Aladdin. Jafar was wearing robes, and instead of using his staff for magic, he was wrestling with Aladdin. It was entirely possible he’d just try to chase after Jasmine and loose his footing on the loose coins.

Jafar barely spared a glance for Mozenrath-- he wasn’t sure he’d seen anything but Carpet-- but managed to fling Aladdin away with a burst of strength born sheer of fury. “Ah, ah, ah, Princess!,” he crowed just as Jasmine lifted the lamp, “Your time is up!”

No!

But it wasn’t a simple death-- instead, it was a massive hourglass, with Jasmine trapped in the bottom, sand pouring too quickly down on her. A death _trap,_ and a glass one, at that, easily broken by someone on the outside.

“I have her!” Mozenrath called, leaving Aladdin free to tackle Jafar again, pounding on the sorcerer as though they were in any street brawl. Mozenrath urged Carpet closer to the hourglass, blasting at the upper dome-- stop the sand falling on Jasmine, first, then get her out.

Jasmine pounded at the glass, calling Mozenrath’s name-- it was only muffled-- but he heard Jafar taunt, “Don’t toy with me!” and Aladdin shouting for his monkey.

Jasmine finally got his attention, desperately pointing and shouting, muffled but audible-- “Get the lamp!”

He nodded, hating himself for it, and the Carpet sped unerringly toward the lamp, laying next to a carved wooden monkey.

… oh.

Jafar raised his staff, and started to say-- something-- but Mozenrath raised his gauntlet and _blasted,_ knocking the Jafar off his feet while Carpet snatched up the lamp in his tassels, soaring high above the hills of coins. Carpet reached up to offer the lamp to Mozenrath-- who at least had hands to rub with-- before a bolt of Jafar’s electric gold magic caught them from underneath.

Carpet unraveled, and Mozenrath fell.

He fell _well,_ and the coins had a surprising amount of give, but he found himself rolling down the slope of them, damaged back and raw right arm screaming at him by turns, leaving him dazed and breathless by the time he hit the floor.

~*~

“Get the point?” And a ring of swords fell from nowhere, cutting Aladdin off from Genie’s lamp.

Jafar cackled, having entirely too much fun with this. Carpet was down, Mozenrath looked… well, Jasmine was still alive, at least, and Aladdin reached between a gap in the swords, straining to grab the lamp-- until Jafar bent down to collect it.

So Aladdin grabbed a sword, instead. He’d had pretty good luck with swords against sorcerers today.

“I’m just getting warmed up!” and like a cheap trick in the marketplace-- complete with the bad puns he was as bad as Genie, maybe worse, since Aladdin understood the puns enough to know they weren’t funny-- Jafar blew out a gout of flame-- but one that turned the rest of the swords into a ring of fire.

“Are you afraid to fight me yourself, you cowardly snake?” He had to get the lamp away, or buy Mozenrath enough time to wake up-- if he was still alive-- or maybe just con Jafar into giving Aladdin a chance to cut him in half.

Anything would work for him right now.

“A snake, am I?” Jafar asked, stepping through the fire unharmed, like some sort of demon. “Perhaps you’d like to see how _snakelike--_ ” oh and that tongue was wrong-- “I can be?”

The tongue was just the start of it, Jafar’s shape melting subtly, horribly, into the head of what Aladdin hoped would be the biggest cobra he’d ever see in his life.

~*~

Mozenrath came to his senses just in time to see Jafar complete his transformation into a massive snake.

“… That… that never helps,” he muttered-- but got to his knees, then his feet, ignoring the fact that he felt sticky in a few very suspect places. Enough sand had fallen into Jasmine’s hourglass that Mozenrath grabbed the nearest blunt instrument-- a solid gold hookah, one of a hundred random treasures in the heap-- and struck hard at its base, under the weight of the sand.

That Jasmine was watching Aladdin didn’t matter. It was probably pretty hard to look away from the giant cobra, and Mozenrath _had_ crept up behind her, where the sand was piled highest. What mattered was the force of the sand pushing the shattered glass outward, toward Mozenrath’s booted feet, instead of inward over Jasmine’s unprotected shoulders.

Jafar was briefly distracted by Genie’s nonsense, enough to cover the shattering as sand and glass poured over Mozenrath’s boots, Jasmine stumbling backwards as the sand burying her legs shifted-- then climbing incautiously through the shattered bulb, arms tight but careful around Mozenrath’s shoulders.

His left arm wrapped around her waist, cheek to her hair. “Where’s the lamp?”

“I don’t know.” They both flinched as Jafar tore through pillars to try to chase Aladdin out onto-- or out over-- the balcony. “He had it when he changed.”

Outside, Jafar screamed, and Aladdin ran back inside toward the hourglass at top speed-- only to be trapped in Jafar’s coils.

“We have to find it,” Jasmine whispered.

“Now, while he’s focused,” Mozenrath agreed shoving her-- gently-- away. Jasmine to the right, Mozenrath to the left.

It had worked before.

~*~

“You little fool,” Jafar chortled, coils tightening around Aladdin as he struggled. “You thought you could defeat the most powerful being on Earth? Without the djinni, boy, you’re nothing.”

But even as Aladdin struggled to keep from being crushed-- Jafar had luckily gone for poison, which he hadn’t used, instead of a good strangler in his choice of snake-- there was something… something to that. “The djinni… The djinni has more power than you’ll ever have,” he taunted Jafar. 

“ _What?_ ”

“He _gave_ you your power-- he can take it away!” That had been the plan, honestly-- get the lamp away from Jafar and to Mozenrath, who’d wish for Jafar’s first two wishes to be completely undone.

And probably for his own injuries to be healed.

“Al,” Genie said, like someone trying to avoid getting dragged into a friend’s senseless fight, “What are you doing? Why are you bringing me into this?”

“Face it, Jafar,” Aladdin shouted, “You’re still just second best.” He’d bet Jafar had hated that, all those years of being vizier-- being the second most powerful man in the kingdom. … In fact, he’d just bet all their lives on it. If Jafar didn’t take the bait…

“You’re right.” Good-- insanely powerful as he was, Jafar still wanted more power. “His power does exceed my own-- but not for _long._ ” Jafar slithered down to face Genie. Aladdin watched desperately from where Jafar still held him, too tight to escape but not so tight he was worried about broken hips. Jafar could still make the wrong wish.

… Jasmine and Mozenrath were loose, and alive, half-hidden in the coins and searching for the lamp.

“The boy’s crazy,” Genie said, forcing a chuckle. “A little punch-drunk. One too many hits with the snake.”

Jafar looped his coils loosely around Genie, almost looking relaxed until he bellowed, “Slave! I make my third wish. I wish to be an all powerful djinni!”

… Hook, line, and sinker.

Jasmine turned to stare, aghast, and Mozenrath stumbled and sat heavily-- neither breathed a word.

“… All right,” Genie said, hopelessly, “Your wish is my command.” He muttered something else Aladdin couldn’t quite catch before raising his hand to grant the wish.

Jafar’s hooded cobra head shifted into the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested torso of a djinni-- all in red, just like everything Jafar had conjured that wasn’t solid gold. His coils disappeared into trails of smoke, and Aladdin hit the ground running, met at Mozenrath’s side by Jasmine.

There was blood creeping up Mozenrath’s sleeve, under his new glove.

“I’m fine,” Mozenrath lied, as Jafar pushed his way through the high dome of the throne room.

“ _The absolute power!_ ” Jafar exulted.

“What have you _done?_ ” Jasmine demanded, helping Aladdin get Mozenrath to his feet, away from falling chunks of ceiling.

“Trust me!” When Jasmine and Mozenrath were out of the worst of it, Aladdin ran back to where Jafar’s smoky tail trailed off, still surrounded by whirling magic.

It would work.

He just had to hope Jafar wouldn’t bring the whole palace down on their heads first.

“The universe is mine to command-- to control!” Jafar bellowed.

The magic stopped whirling, resolving into a black oil lamp-- harder, harsher lines than Genie’s. _Perfect_. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Jafar?” Aladdin called up through the shattered roof. He looked down at Aladdin, perplexed. “You wanted to be a djinni? You _got_ it!” As if on cue-- maybe it was on cue, djinni magic seemed to work that way, sometimes-- manacles clamped themselves around Jafar’s wrists-- seamless, just like Genie’s, only one way to get them off. “And everything that goes with it!”

Jafar bellowed in protest, managing to catch hold of Iago as the parrot tried to flee-- the two screaming and squabbling with each other-- “Phenomenal cosmic power!” Aladdin shouted over the last of the din--

And then Jafar and Iago were gone, pulled into the lamp, their argument muffled and tinny. “Itty bitty living space,” Aladdin concluded, grinning.

Genie reached out and ruffled his hair. “Al-- you little genius, you!”

~*~

So.

There were freebies, and then there were freebies. Aladdin had tricked Genie into, effectively, one free wish-- getting out of the Cave of Wonders. Technically, when Al had wished to become a prince, Genie could have just said _poof, you’re a prince,_ maybe with a little light show, and that would’ve been that-- but the idea of a prince needed more and Genie was feeling pretty generous, what with the whole promise of his own freedom, so Genie got out his bedazzler and started the whole Prince Ali Ababwa shtick.

And then there were the freebies that… barely counted, because they were just doing things that just wanted to happen next-- logically or just emotionally. Narrative causality freebies. Like how the glass slippers never turn back into wooden clogs at midnight with the rest of the formalwear, because the story needs them for a later scene.

Hitting the reset button on Jafar’s sorcerous doings, putting everything back the way it was?

Narrative causality freebie. Easily slipped in there not because anyone had burned a wish on it, but because it _should_ have happened, and was easy enough to tack onto the backwash of Jafar’s ‘whoops I accidentally a djinni’ wish.

So, the crazy psychotropic weather went away (leaving a late afternoon that was shaping up to be a beautiful sunset), Abu no longer qualified for a part in Toy Story, Carpet’s weave got restored, Ahmed not only got to be the Sultan of Agrabah again, but got his old duds back (turns out Xerxes had spent the fight trying to chew through the Sultan’s puppet strings so _he_ could make a couple grabs for the lamp, too), Jasmine got a change of clothes and importantly, magical mouthwash for that minty-fresh ‘no evil aftertaste’ breath, Rajah aged back up to where he should be, the palace was not only magically transported back where it belonged, but got put back exactly _as it had been,_ no cobras in the décor or giant snake damage or cracks in the foundation, and Genie cheated just a _tiny_ bit and in patching up everybody’s bruises or pre-bruises, also healed the worst of Mozenrath’s injuries. There’d be scars, but they’d be faint.

As for Jafar himself?

Genie couldn’t help listening into the bickering with Al for a minute. It was a little muffled, Jafar and Iago fighting like cats and dogs about elbow room and unfortunate smells, but totally worth a giggle. Apparently, Jafar’s lamp wasn’t big enough for two.

“Allow me?” he said, relieving Al of the black lamp. “Ten thousand years in a Cave of Wonders ought to chill him out…” And, big as Genie had gotten to get enough range, despite the dramatic wind-up, all it really took was one magic-assisted flick.

And… then things got a little complicated.

“Marry me,” Mozenrath blurted, graceless and desperate and holding onto Jasmine’s hands like he was afraid she’d disappear.

“… I _beg_ your pardon?” the Sultan spluttered, but Jasmine only spared a glance for her father protesting.

… Probably reasonable to protest a little, too. After all, the last he knew, his baby girl was engaged to the street rat formerly known as prince.

“What about Destane?” Jasmine asked, and Mozenrath shook his head.

“He can’t stop us now.”

“… What did you--” But Jasmine shook her head. “ _Yes._ Yes, I will marry you, Mozenrath-- you have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to ask me.”

“… I’d guess about as long as I’ve wished I was free to ask you.” He wrapped Jasmine up tight in his arms-- careful of the right one. Maybe it was still sore, but Genie couldn’t sneak in anything more now.

The Sultan looked over at Aladdin. “Don’t you have anything to say about this?” Genie thought it was more curious than accusing, but Aladdin stood up a little straighter anyway.

“I do. When we were on our way to Agrabah, I found out we were thinking about this whole thing differently-- me and Mozenrath. I wanted to stop Jafar-- and keep a promise,” he added, nodding to Genie. “All Mozenrath could think about was Princess Jasmine. So, uh. … Congratulations?”

“… I never wanted any of this to hurt you,” Jasmine told Al-- but she didn’t pull away from Mozenrath, who didn’t let her go. “I know what you went through for me.”

“I went through it for a fair chance with you. I had that.” Which was… wow. Genie would be a lot more bitter at losing the girl to another guy. Al really was a diamond in the rough. “Besides, I’m not really eligible anymore.”

“You’ve got one wish left, Al,” Genie offered. “I can fix that-- just say the word and we can get that prince wish back in business.”

“Genie, they love each other. Even if I really _were_ a prince, it wouldn’t be right to get in the way of that. Besides, I wish for your freedom.”

“-- wait what?”

“Genie, you’re free,” Aladdin declared, deliberately, thrusting the lamp forward.

And it was magical. Everyone else watched the effects, but Genie could _feel_ it, a granting that seemed to come from outside as well as in. The lamp was still tied to him, but he wasn’t tied to _obey,_ not anymore. There was a lightness, a suddenness-- a loss of power, but who _cared?_ His manacles opened, fell away, and disappeared.

He actually felt kind of naked without them, but ten thousand years et cetera. 

And for the first time, for the first time _ever,_ without cheating and using something else to lift it, Genie picked up his lamp.

It was packed full of magic-- he’d need to keep it safe, and it could still be home, a hiding place… but it wouldn’t ever be a prison again.

“I’m free,” he breathed. “I’m _free._ ” But he had to test it. “Quick--quick, wish for something outrageous,” he said, shoving the lamp back into Aladdin’s hands. “Say ‘I want the Nile,’ wish for the Nile, try that.”

“… Uh, I wish for the Nile,” Al offered, bewildered but obedient.

“No way!” Genie crowed, and _meant_ it-- not only meant it but didn’t have to do it anyway! There was no urge, no compulsion, no irresistible burst of magic-- “ _Oh_ does that feel _good!_ ” and if he was cackling, it was at least gleefully, not maniacally, as he bounced from balcony to pillar to lintel and back, everything lit up like a pinball machine. “I’m free! I’m free at last! I’m hittin’ the road,” he decided, and started throwing things that hadn’t existed a moment before into a suitcase that hadn’t existed a moment before, “I’m off to see the world, I’m--”

… And there was Al.

Al, who’d gone through everything-- the rough life on the streets, the Cave of Wonders, the wacky emotional roller coaster that was courting Princess Jasmine, the ends of the earth, whatever happened when he stopped to pick up Kid Power Glove, saving _everybody_ from Jafar… And what did he have to show for it? His wishes hadn’t left him with anything but memories and his life, he hadn’t gotten the girl, and yet there he was, smiling up at Genie like Genie was the most important person in the world, like Al’s heart was about to break or burst.

And this morning, he said he didn’t want to say goodbye to Genie today.

“Genie,” he started, awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna… miss you.”

“Me too, Al,” Genie admitted, quietly, drawing Aladdin into a hug. 

“Is there some pressing reason,” Mozenrath started, and Genie looked over to see… a very weird happy couple, Jasmine’s eyes as wet as Genie’s, and the two lovebirds each with a hand freed to pay attention to each other’s pets, “that Aladdin couldn’t go with you?”

Genie looked at Al.

Like the abyss, Al looked back.

“Would you want to? It’s not like I have a plan, I’m making up for millennia of seeing pretty close to nothing, here…”

“I-- I’d need to make a stop first, but… I don’t really have any plans for the rest of my life,” Al agreed.

That could’ve sounded really depressing.

The way Al said it, it came out hopeful.

“Road trip!” Genie declared. “Don’t forget the monkey! Rug-man, you in?” he asked Carpet, who nodded (sort of nodded) enthusiastically.

“Now, just a moment!”

… Oh right.

The Sultan. 

If Genie sort of edged between Al and the Sultan, well, that was probably a figment of somebody’s imagination.

“Father,” Jasmine protested. Could’ve been ‘scolded’ or even ‘admonished,’ but she was definitely starting with ‘protested.’

“Now, the two of you,” the Sultan said to Jasmine and Mozenrath-- then just pointed at Mozenrath. “Young man, I have questions. But they can wait-- the two of you have my permission to marry, and my blessing.” Jasmine deflated, and Mozenrath sagged in relief. “As for you, Aladdin,” the Sultan began, and Jasmine puffed back up again-- so did Genie, a little. “I obviously cannot offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage, despite it being traditional in this sort of situation. But whatever else you have done or been through, whatever your station in life, today, you have saved my daughter, myself, and my kingdom from a madman, and used your last wish to grant someone else’s deepest desire.

“In light of your bravery, your quick thinking, and your remarkable willingness to see to the happiness of others before your own, I grant you a royal favor, Aladdin,” the Sultan concluded, “anything you ask for, if it is in my power to give, you shall have.”

Al gave it some thought. Some deep thought, and all Genie could really do was keep a hand on his shoulder.

“The sun’s going down,” Aladdin said after a moment.

“So it is,” the Sultan agreed.

“If you try to get Mozenrath through a wedding before Jasmine’s-- Princess Jasmine’s sixteenth birthday ends, he’s going to fall over.”

“… I wish I could argue with that,” Mozenrath agreed.

“What are you asking, my boy?” the Sultan asked, and frankly, Genie was a little confused, himself. 

“If I can ask you to do one thing within your power, Your Majesty, I ask you to change the marriage law. … To whatever Jasmine thinks is reasonable. I know she has her prince already, but… you could have granddaughters, someday.”

“… And how is that asking for something for yourself, my boy?” but the Sultan seemed happy about it anyway.

“With all respect, Your Majesty, I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll be back in Agrabah. This is… the best thing I can think of, and I don’t know if Jasmine would’ve asked for it herself.”

“… Not that openly,” Jasmine admitted.

“Mm,” the Sultan agreed, then wagged a finger at Genie-- “You stay put a moment. I’m not done with this boy yet. Jasmine,” he said, turning to his daughter, “what _do_ you think is reasonable?”

“I think… I understand,” she started, “why a princess in my position might need to get married, but--”

“She should be your heir,” Mozenrath broke in, skipping Jasmine’s diplomacy. “Jasmine would be a remarkable ruler in her own right.”

“I was _going_ to say that-- that even though I know I want to marry Mozenrath, I want more time. I don’t feel ready to be a wife.”

“Something we’ll need to sit down and scribble out, I think,” the Sultan concluded. “For now, consider the marriage law suspended. As for you, Aladdin… you, and your remarkable friends, are welcome in the Royal Palace of Agrabah as our honored guests at any time. When you return from your travels, I hope you’ll visit us.”

“Give me a few days,” Mozenrath said, “and I’ll see to it nearly every door in the Land of the Black Sand opens for you, as well.” 

“Gotta tell you, Al,” Genie said, leaning on Aladdin’s shoulder, “this has to be the most non-standard Happily Ever After any master of mine has ever wished their way into.”

“It doesn’t have to be happily ever after,” Al said, shrugging-- smiling, warm and bright enough for everybody. “We’re all free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lucky bird, inside a gilded cage."  
> Golden words, spoke by an ancient sage  
> "Everything you may have in life,  
> Still all you hold is dust"
> 
> Must I yearn forever to be free  
> Free to climb a tree and ponder  
> Free to wander  
> There's no desire I hold fonder  
> Than to be  
> Simply me  
> To be free
> 
> How ungrateful is this lucky bird  
> Spurning privilege for one simple word  
> Freedom to stretch these golden wings  
> Freedom to touch the sky
> 
> "Why," some would ask, "Would she want to be  
> "Free to throw away a treasure?"  
> For with pleasure  
> I'd sacrifice riches beyond measure  
> Just a girl  
> With a boy  
> What a perfect fantasy
> 
> To find love  
> To feel joy  
> To be really free...

**Author's Note:**

>  **Further Author's Notes:** Now that you've made it this far, I can tell you the English Class theme of this story. The film _Aladdin_ was about disguises, truth versus lies, and being yourself. _To Be Free_ is partly about truth and lies, but _mostly_ about captivity versus freedom, only a secondary theme in the movie. Everyone in this story, whether or not I want you to root for them or not, is a prisoner somehow-- to social status, to a job, to obligation or duty, to a magic lamp. Some of them are satisfied with their cages and prisons. Some of them would gnaw off a limb to get out of their traps. Some of them would be willing to bear up for the rest of their lives, if they could free someone else.
> 
> This story has been in my head for at least five years, and spilled out into the keyboard over nine days. [Celaeno](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Celaeno/gifts) kept me going with encouragement and amazing feedback like "I've never even seen a Mozenrath episode, how are you making me ship them so hard?" which, really, is a super-awesome compliment to get. The total word count over all three parts is 41,826. To Be Free is almost eighty pages. I have a few terribly vague ideas for continuations (it'd almost be unfair not to introduce Sadira to this universe), but I make no promises as to what or when.


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